Faces and Names
by DMat
Summary: Final chapter up! Joker attempts to learn Batman's alter ego in this near future tale, and ends up discovering much more than he had bargained for.
1. Predicted Events I

Chapter 1: Predicted Events I  
  
The Bat-signal loomed high in the sky that night. Below it, jagged skyscrapers are silhouetted by eerie moonlight as they reach upwards from the glowing abyss that is Gotham City. Each building seems to dwarf its neighbour until they culminate in the heart of the city to a single spectacular structure that is the Wayne Foundation building. At the very peak among the clouds and angels sits a fearsomely dressed black cloaked figure, its arms folded, waiting. The added light of the signal seems to startle this creature of the night and it rises to its feet. Once more the Batman is revealed in the moonlight, and once more he jumps into the waiting void with his billowing cape stretching upwards as he falls, trying to reach heaven.  
  
…  
  
"Well, sir, you pulled a nice trick on our Dr. Fairly yesterday," the plump little white-coat wearing psychiatrist remarks. It's his first session with the Joker and he can't help notice how, even though completely incapacitated and displaying a cool and collected demeanour, the Joker still exudes an aura of danger and raw power. 'Even his reputation can't prepare you,' the doctor thinks. 'This green haired, ruby red-lipped, chalk white skinned clown is by far the most frightening and powerful lunatic I've ever interviewed.'  
  
"Why thank you. It's always nice to be noticed," the Joker responds to the doctor's greeting.  
  
'Did he just read my mind?' the doctor wonders. He blinks strongly and continues, "You certainly have an aversion to therapy. Before the mandatory strait jacket you had killed two of your previous therapists. Even with the jacket you have driven two insane, one to murder, one to suicide and repulsed the rest. Well, maybe thirteenth time is lucky. I'm Dr. Marcus," the rotund little man says with a half-hearted smile. His glasses were so thick that, at a certain angle, Joker could see himself within their reflection. Joker liked that.  
  
"Charmed," the Joker says slyly.  
  
"Let's begin. What's your name?" the round little man asks, still smiling.  
  
"Joker."  
  
"Joker is a playing card. A cheap little piece of paper. No matter how garish you look, you, sir, are a man. So I'll ask again, what is your name?" the little man says, still smiling, but in a more relaxed manner now as he thinks, 'Got him!'  
  
Joker furrows his brow at this point and actually does the closest thing to a frown he is capable of. 'This little man,' he thinks, 'who looks like a roly-poly fatso-the-clown certainly is pushy. Still, there's no sense in killing him. The glasses. Besides, I've often wondered about me, the name I call myself.' "I don't know," he replies contorting his face into a perplexed image, "it's all a muddled blur."  
  
"Now that is a shame. Look, everyone has a name that their parents gave them. It's what keeps us rooted in reality. It's my belief that if you wish to be cured of a mental ailment, the best way to start would be to find the patient's true given name. At least with that foothold to reality you could try to pull the patient to sanity. Are you sure you do not remember your true name?"  
  
"Yes," 'this is getting boring. Maybe I'll kill you anyway,' Joker ponders.  
  
"Are you sure? Everyone else has one. Two-Face is Harvey Dent, and he's always willing to try something, twice. Heh. Sorry, bedside humour. Jonathan Crane is Scarecrow. Poison Ivy is Pamela Isley. Even Harley Quinn is Harleen Quinzel. Wouldn't you like to share your name too? Don't you want to be cured?"  
  
"Now why would I want to be associated with those losers?" Joker responds, annoyed. 'And bringing up Harley, when you know how I loathe her! Yeesh. I should kill you just for that,' he thinks.  
  
"Even you and your fellows' arch-nemesis, this phantasm of the night you all seem to share. Bat-Man? I do believe that is the name. This Bat-Man also must have a true name. Something that roots him to reality long enough to combat you, your cell mates and the underworld. Something must anchor him, otherwise madness would completely engulf him and he would be in here with me interviewing him instead. Wouldn't you like to be on an even level with this creature?"  
  
"Intriguing," 'but Batman was never anywhere near MY level,' Joker thinks. 'Still, four-eyes has a point. I've often wondered who Batsy truly is. Not that it matters to me personally, but imagine the fun that could be had with him during the day! Our game could continue 24-7! I could look him up, see his pad, and spin some records while shacking up with Mrs. Bats. I could take the car out for a joyride. I could mark my territory in his pool. Take Bats Jr. out for a one-way walk to the fireworks factory. I so do love fireworks. After all, since the bridge Batsy's gotten dull and boring, like he's in a rut or something. This could spice things up, and when it's all done I'll look in Batsy's eyes and make him smile…'  
  
"Excuse me sir," the round little man says, "but what is your answer?"  
  
"I'll tell you, doc," Joker begins, "you're a genius! I can't help but want to free myself from this madness thanks to your startling and pushy questions! Why, my name," the Joker pauses and ensures his eyes are fixed firmly on the good Dr. Marcus' eyes. "Why my name is coming to me," and with this the Joker begins to whisper rhythmetically, "It is...it is...it is...Joe...yes, Joe...Joe...yes, Joe...Joe...yes, Joe...Karsey... no, no...Kersey...no, no...Kerry...no, no...Kerr...ho, ho! My name is Joe Kerr and in a trance you go."  
  
Dr. Marcus wasn't laughing. In fact he wasn't moving. He sat in his chair, spellbound, eyes unblinking and staring into the Joker's fiery pupils. The Joker almost casually removes his straitjacket. "I've always loved Houdini," he smirks as the jacket hits the floor. Glaring at the security camera the Joker removes the doctor's clothes and puts them on. He then puts the doctor into his asylum issued smock and pants as best he could. A few moments later, while staring into the security camera, the disguised Joker proclaims "Dr. Marcus is leaving now," a message eagerly conveyed by the camera operator to his supervisor. The supervisor agrees and electronically unlocks the interview room door and the Joker calmly takes a walk out of the asylum. Upon reaching the outside world he laughs his loud and unmistakingly vicious laugh as nearby two asylum security guards respond in level, monotone voices, "Dr. Marcus...is...leaving...now..."  
  
…  
  
Commissioner Gordon will never tire of the site. 'Gotham City can be beautiful at night,' he muses as he empties his pipe upon the roof of police headquarters, 'but in this world beauty is often used to hide something dark and ugly, and no city is uglier inside than Gotham. It does things to men.' The Commissioner pauses as he feels the air change about him and when the little hairs on the back of his neck stood up he knew. "Hello old friend," he says casually.  
  
From the darkness emerges the Batman, unanswering.  
  
'It wasn't always like this,' the Commissioner ponders. 'Before the bridge I never got the drop on him. He's the same man, that's for certain, but something's changed. Whatever it is, I hope what's next doesn't eat him alive.' "It's Joker," the Commissioner says in a low authoritarian voice, "he's escaped from Arkham. Once the Joker's daily therapy session was over the two orderlies guarding the door walked in and found Dr. Marcus wearing the clown's clothes. Marcus was just sitting there and staring at nothing. Dr. Arkham recognized it as a hypnotic trance, something he's familiar with and uses on the inmates. Not one orderly or guard remembers Joker leaving the Asylum. He probably hypnotized half the asylum just to get out! Incredible."  
  
The Batman simply stands still and silent.  
  
"Funny thing is there wasn't a single casualty. Not one person harmed in his escape. He's killed hundreds without a thought, and now, with a perfect opening for chaos he just walks away. This can't be good." The Commissioner pauses and shakes his head in disbelief.  
  
The Batman stays silent and unmoving.  
  
"Dr. Arkham is trying to deprogram the ENTIRE asylum, but it's a very risky job. For all we know Joker has commands set up in his victims that could be triggered by our tampering. It's too much for the asylum's limited resources. He's actually opened up to outside offers for help. I've had to commit a force to patrol the place and try to keep the peace. At least the inmates are behaving, for now anyways..."  
  
The Batman stands unwavering.  
  
"Look, damn it, you know I don't need your help! You know what I think about you and your damned crusade! I didn't call you here to sic' you on the clown! He's a psycho and we'll handle him!"  
  
For the first time Batman smiles.  
  
Gordon smirks in response. They both know the city would be lost without the Batman. "I thought that'd get you. What he's done in the asylum suggests he's got a single-minded mission, not random chaos, in mind. I think he'll be coming for you, my friend, to finish what he started," Gordon takes a puff on his freshly lit pipe and lets his words sink in. Yes, something has definitely changed. "You've always walked very close to the edge, my friend, and you know it takes not only great physical skill but sharp intellect not to fall in. I'm afraid that after the bridge you've lost something inside. You know I'm surprised you still put on that suit at night." Gordon takes another puff and looks warily at the Batman. The Batman moves to the edge of the building and stands on the ledge, ready to jump into the night. A hollow voice whispers "You shouldn't worry about me," and he's gone.  
  
'No,' Gordon thinks, 'you've already fallen in. Damn, it's only a matter of time now. Maybe the APB has turned something up.' As Gordon leaves he turns off the Bat-signal and realizes just how much more sinister the sky above, and city below, look without it.  
  
…  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
All about the Batman are broken bodies that just a few moments ago were laughing and joking members of Gotham's underworld enjoying drinks at SnooZ's bar. Only one man is left standing, pinned between the wall and the Batman. His hands broken and pain etched in his face the bartender can barely manage a glance upwards at the Batman without wincing in agony.  
  
"Don't make me ask again."  
  
The bartender can feel beads of sweat pour down his grey moustache as he wonders what to do. 'Everyone else said they didn't know and look at them now,' he thinks, 'they're barely breathing. But if I send him off on a goose chase he could hunt me down. He could do worse!' "I...I don't know. Please don't hurt me anymore." Merciful blackness follows.  
  
…  
  
The barkeep awakens much later to the sounds of many men talking among flashing lights outside his bar. Above him two ambulance workers loom, having attended to his two broken arms they now are discussing who next to work on. "This is the third tonight," one attendant says in a disbelieving voice, "Damn, how can one guy do all this?" The other attendant looks at his partner and is about to say something but the dispatcher's voice comes crackling over their comm. units, "All available personnel to The Gilded Edge, site of major disturbance." Both attendants can only give a shake of their heads before moving on to the next patient.  
  
'He ain't human,' the barkeep thinks. 'How can anyone squeeze four gin joints in one night? How can anyone do all this and just move on and do it again?' The barkeep looks at the casts covering his arms and wonders, 'What if he comes back?'  
  
Nearby he can hear two voices talking. "Commish," says one, "this is insane. We all knew cape-boy was wacky, but never like this. I mean, if it were up to me I'd have just taken a baseball bat to each of these joints ages ago and hit home runs with each of these rats' heads, but that just ain't what being cops, or even law abiding citizens, is about. We've got reports of roving gangs of thugs tryin' to hunt him down, spooking the honest folks. It's like World War III out here and if we're gonna keep the peace, like our job description says, then we've gotta take him in. It's the only way."  
  
"I know the situation," the Commissioner barks, "You don't have to repeat it to me at each call!" The Commissioner pauses for a moment and murmurs "Sorry."  
  
"It's okay. Just tell me to do my job and bring him in."  
  
"I know there's no love lost between you and him Harvey, but we can't have the police join in with these roving mobs. No," the Commissioner looks up at the stars for a second and lights another pipe. 'There are so few stars visible from Gotham's streets, and the sky looks so black, so dark,' he thinks. "We've got to shut the bars down."  
  
Detective Harvey Bullock looks at the Commissioner with a scowl, "Gotham's going to hell and you're just gonna ignore the cause."  
  
"In case you haven't noticed Gotham is already in hell, and it's up to us, ALL of us, to redeem her! Now get some teams together and shut the bars down. While you're doing that I'll try to disperse the crowds. Get to it!" 'Maybe this way,' Gordon thinks, 'you'll actually be forced into some detective work my dark friend. If you are going to survive the Joker this round you've got to start thinking.'  
  
'My God,' the barkeep thinks, 'even the police are powerless against him.'  
  
"Hey you!" a police officer can be seen yelling across several stretchers in the direction of the barkeep. He walks towards the barkeep and shines a very phoney smile, "Could you provide a statement as to what happened? None of these other fellas are willing or able to give me something to sort the mess out, you know, officially. Actually you're the first fully awake guy I've come across. So how about it? What'd you see?"  
  
"Nothing officer...I saw nothing at all..."  
  
…  
  
At McMichael's Bar the party is going loud and strong. Lights, music, dancing and beer keep the crowd in a joyous mood. They don't know what's happening in the outside world, nor do they care. In fact, none notice the figure looming over them in the skylight above. Standing and staring down is the Batman, choosing his main targets, the ones he'll keep conscious long enough to answer his question.  
  
Suddenly the outside air is filled with flashing lights and the piercing screech of police sirens. They pull up to McMichael's and empty out. Led by the rotund Det. Harvey Bullock they flock into the bar. The crowd initially doesn't notice the cops and continues dancing until the sound is shut off. "Alright!" yells Bullock, "This place's booze licence expired! Get out!" The crowd continues to stand, confused. "NOW! Or you're all busted!" With that the crowd heads out.  
  
"You're shafting us!" the barkeep yells, "My licence ain't expired!"  
  
"Really now?" replies Bullock "Then we've made a horrible mistake. Tell ya what, we'll take down your liquor licence number and have some folks look it over for us at headquarters. If it's legit you get it back in a week and can continue your respectful business with your 'ahem' respectful patrons. But yank my chain around and I'll rip up this hole and find something, you just know I WILL find something, to shove you in another dark hole at the station with the Tattooed Man and his boyfriend Slit-Face. So...shut...up." The look of red scowled hatred on the detective's face told the barkeep to accept his generous offer.  
  
The Batman sees all this from above and realizes that a similar scene is being played out in most of the dives he was going to visit. 'Well then, time to HIT the streets.'  
  
…  
  
It's nearly 5 am when the Commissioner pulls his police issued car up to the driveway of his 3 storey town home. 'What a night,' he thinks as he exits and looks up towards home and the police officer on guard in the front. For a moment he thinks how good it would feel to open the door and see his teary eyed daughter Barbara light up with relief and joy upon seeing her father arrive after a chaos filled night. No doubt she'd also be worried about the Batman, but it could be understood. After all, she ran around with him in cape and cowl, helping him to fight the good fight. That is, until the Joker. The house is empty now, a cold and barren place…  
  
The Commissioner shakes his head, trying to remove the unpleasant memory from his mind as he makes his way up the stairs to the brownstone and fumbles for his house keys. He half-heartedly mumbles a greeting to the guard as he approaches. 'They keep rotating the men on duty,' he thinks, 'it's impossible to keep track of names.' However, this officer had a very familiar twinkle to his eye when he replied, and when the Commissioner reaches the top of the steps he notices the apparently friendly smile is actually large and malicious. 'Oh God, the Joker!'  
  
Before the Commissioner can act he feels a sharp sting within his chest which suddenly becomes a dead numbness. Struggling for strength he manages to look at the large hypodermic needle protruding and then feels himself slip away as he desperately tries to grab onto the Joker. He briefly recalls what Batman said last night "You shouldn't worry about me." He was right.  
  
Soon, all is black.  
  
"Ever get a feeling of déjà vu?" the Joker remarks as he drags the Commissioner's still body down the steps to the idle car…  
  
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK… 


	2. Predicted Events II

Chapter 2: Predicted Events II  
  
Detective Harvey Bullock is on a long shift that just doesn't want to end. He spent the entire night coordinating the shut down of every dive in Gotham, and followed it up by patrolling the streets for 4 hours to try and disperse anti-Batman mobs scattered throughout the city. Now he's taking over for the Commissioner, who should be at home and asleep by now. 'He's a good man,' thinks the detective, 'but completely wrong about the Batman. Batman's just another nut (sure a brilliant nut, but a nut nonetheless) whose one target happens to be other nuts. It's the cops who keep Gotham from going to hell, and it's the Batman who keeps attracting new nuts out of the woodwork.' Pleased with himself Bullock, unshaved, unbathed, and with a XXXL shirt covered in coffee stains, donut crumbs and sweat, eases back on his desk chair and puts his feet up in an attempt to relax.  
  
A loud voice suddenly rouses him from his stupor, "Detective Bullock, sir!" A young officer comes running up to the now completely alert, and peeved, Bullock.  
  
"What-do-you-want?" replies Bullock through clenched teeth.  
  
"Officer Jensen just reported from his car. He was supposed to take over from Officer Clancy at 0500 hours at the Commissioner's home. But when he got there Officer Clancy was missing and upon further investigation so was the Commissioner!"  
  
"Cripes," was Bullock's only response.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Alright, get an APB out on the Commish and Clancy."  
  
"Are you sure, sir? Any reporter listening..."  
  
"Any vulture that's listening to the police channel probably will turn the case into a farce, I know, but it's also the quickest way of getting the word out to the force, and maybe if we find the Commish soon enough he'll still be breathing. While you're at it tell Montoya and Crispus to get a detail together over to the Commish's place. This is their baby and I want results, fast!"  
  
"What about you, sir?"  
  
"Me? I'm headed to the roof." 'It's still dark for another hour,' thinks Bullock, 'maybe he's still out there. Maybe there's still time.' "Damn it," he curses as he runs up the stairs. 'It has to be the Joker. No one else out of Arkham is crazy enough to do this. No one…'  
  
…  
  
Underneath the once majestic but now dilapidated and unkempt Wayne Manor is a cave of fantastic proportions. Within the pitch black cave stir thousands upon thousands of bats, constantly flapping wings and emitting high pitched noises until the sun rises. Below the bats in the heart of the cave sits a weary Batman, head arched back listening to the police broadcasts through his cowl radio. At these moments, when the blackness seems all consuming, his mind drifts into daydream and he remembers how it all began and how the darkness felt that very first time…  
  
"Look Thomas," his mother said as they exited the Monarch theatre after watching the Mark of Zorro, "look at Bruce!"  
  
Bruce was darting around his two parents, excited by the heroics just witnessed, by the daring acrobatics and wonderful swordplay. He was that hero, and he wished that night would never end. His father laughed, "Well Bruce, Zorro himself wouldn't be a match for you right now!"  
  
Suddenly, so suddenly, would Bruce's parents stop his running. Looking up he could see a menacing figure outlined by the street lamp above. The night was too dark to see anything of detail except for the shiny gun reflecting dim light. That moment seemed to last for an eternity.  
  
The man grasped his mother's pearl necklace and pulled. "Let go of her you..." his father yelled as he grabbed the man's arm. Bruce then remembers a spark of light with a loud bang, thunder and lightning, as his father fell.  
  
His mother screamed only to receive the second blast of fire.  
  
Bruce just stood there, his eyes big and sad.  
  
The man then turned the gun towards Bruce's forehead. Bruce could see right into the barrel. "Sorry kid," the man said, and then another flash was followed by darkness…  
  
He awakens in a cold sweat, no longer the scared child. His breathing is hard and laborious as he remembers the nightmare, his gloved hand instinctively feeling his forehead for a scar, and finds none. The dream was always the same, only now it ends so differently, with his own blood spilled and mingling with that of his parents'.  
  
Bruce has analyzed this each night and always arrives to the same conclusion. 'A miracle? Divine intervention? No. There was nothing divine about watching my father fall to the ground, nor anything miraculous to my mother spewing blood from her wound as she fell to join him. No, if you truly believe in miracles then my parents wouldn't be dead right now. And if you believed in mercy, I would be dead with them.'  
  
The cowl radio suddenly crackles, "all units, be on the lookout for Commissioner James Gordon, missing since early this morning. He is described as..."  
  
The Batman violently removes his cowl and the radio within it and sinks back into his chair in a cold sweat. 'Damn it, not Jim too.'  
  
Nearby is a table, and although it is completely invisible in the darkness he can recall each item placed upon it clearly within his mind. He feels the scar on his forehead where the bullet once was. 'This is how it began,' he thinks. Turning to the table he recalls each item:  
  
'Crossbow used by the Huntress, Helena Bertenelli. An orphan. If he only knew earlier...'  
  
'Collapsible bo staff used by Robin, Tim Drake. An excellent soldier, apprentice, and friend with his whole life ahead of him. If only he wasn't...'  
  
'Batarang with rope attached used by Batgirl, Cassandra Cain. Daughter of an evil man who had made herself into something better, a wonderful, caring human being who...'  
  
'Escrima fighting sticks used by Nightwing, Dick Grayson, the first Robin, my son...'  
  
'.33 calibre army issue handgun, used by Alfred Pennyworth, butler, friend, confidant, mentor. I hate guns, Alfred. You knew this, yet you kept one. Your only material possession, a reminder of the cruelty you were forced to inflict upon others in order for the common good, in order to save the Crown, your country, and your family. I understand why you kept it Alfred, even though I still don't like guns.'  
  
Bruce rises, walks to the table and picks up Alfred's handgun. He opens the gun chamber. Opening a pouch on his utility belt he removes six bullets and inserts them into the chamber. With a flick of the wrist it closes.  
  
'This,' he thinks, 'is how it will end.'  
  
…  
  
Commissioner Gordon slowly awakens and wonders why he can't move his arms and legs. "Oh." His head is still drooped down into his chest allowing him to make out the silver of duct tape covering his entire body tying him to the chair he's sitting on. Raising his head up he sees the Joker languishing on a long purple sofa reading the newspaper. The headline reads "Commish Kyboshed". He's wearing the Commissioner's glasses, smoking his pipe and sporting a purple smoking jacket and fedora with matching pants. Nearby is a table with a remote control.  
  
'Well,' thinks the Commissioner, 'he's probably going to kill me anyway, so I might as try.' "Help!" he yells.  
  
The Joker turns towards the Commissioner and flashes a playful smile, "Help!!" he yells even louder than the Commissioner.  
  
"Help!!!" yells Gordon, even louder.  
  
"Help!!!!" yells Joker.  
  
"Help!!!!!"  
  
"Help!!!!!!"  
  
The Commissioner stops yelling  
  
"Help!!!!!!! Oh, you've ceased? Finally figured it out, old bean?" the Joker says with the pipe firmly clenched between his teeth. "I would have thought you would be used to this manhandling by now. After all, you have been abducted before by me, Two-Face who did it twice, the Riddler..."  
  
"It was worth a shot," Gordon replies, smiling, "since you're going to kill me anyway."  
  
"Gracious, old soul, I don't wish to harm a hair on your head!"  
  
"Why are you talking like that?" Gordon responds.  
  
"It's this bloody pipe of yours! Makes me feels so damned British!" With that the Joker removes the pipe and smashes it into the ground. "Oh well, smoking's bad for your health anyway. Here, these are yours," the Joker says as he rises up. As he places the glasses over Gordon's eyes he whispers, "You must know that if I wanted you dead, you would be."  
  
"What about the officer assigned to me?" Gordon asks.  
  
"He's a playful little scamp. Sort of reminds me of me. He's somewhere around here." With that the Joker gestures and for the first time Gordon realizes he's in a warehouse. There are wooden cartons throughout the building, stacked one upon the other. He can't see an entrance from his vantage point. Their area was the only lit spot in the entire building.  
  
"If you're not going to kill me then what do you want?" Gordon asks.  
  
"Batman's head of course! Duh! How long have you been a cop? No wonder you're so easy to catch..."  
  
"Alright, damn it, what do you want from me?" Gordon says, annoyed.  
  
"Pushy, aren't we? Well, all I really want from you is some company, really. It gets pretty lonely sitting here, waiting, so let's have a gabfest. But what to talk about? What to talk about? Oh, I know! We'll talk about our common interests. Bodies? Thefts? Explosions? Police brutality? All of these are interesting but I think we should talk about Batman. You can start."  
  
The Commissioner stays silent. 'That's it,' he thinks, 'I'm not indulging this homicidal maniac a minute longer.'  
  
"You know," the Joker says through clenched teeth, "it's not healthy for a man who is tied up and helpless to annoy one of his captors. You must know something about old pointy ears."  
  
"He wears a black cape," Gordon responds.  
  
"Black cape?! Heh. Good one," the Joker says sarcastically. Suddenly his mood changes to seething rage once more, and through clenched teeth, "Tell me Gordon, got any relatives you want to keep breathing? You KNOW what I'm capable of."  
  
The Commissioner stays silent.  
  
"Oh wait!" the Joker jumps up excitedly, "I forgot the best part! I hope you're not above bribery! Here!" The Joker removes his fedora and places it on Gordon's head, tight.  
  
"What's this for?" the Commissioner responds.  
  
"Look up," the Joker says gleefully.  
  
Directly above them Gordon sees a massive skylight. "I wouldn't want any pointy glass to harm you when Batsy drops by to visit," the Joker chortles, "Believe me, it hurts!"  
  
The Joker sits back down and uses the remote to turn on the television at the foot of his couch. It's on the 24 hour news station. "Ambiance," the Joker says. He jumps back up and looks deeply at the Commissioner, "Now let's try this again. You've known Batsy for many years, and even if you don't know who he really is you must have a good idea. So you're going to tell me who you suspect, and you better pray you're right otherwise nothing on earth will save you!"  
  
…  
  
A police officer bursts into Harvey Bullock's office.  
  
"Detective Bullock, Detective Bullock!"  
  
"What now?" Harvey says, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. Bullock hasn't slept in ages and the wear is beginning to show as bags are forming beneath his eyes. 'It's 3 pm, still 4 hours until sunset and not a trace of the Commish. Montoya and Crispus couldn't find anything at the Commish's house that could lead to the Joker's hideout, and the APB has brought up jack squat. We need a break.'  
  
"We got this letter addressed to the Batman marked 'Where oh where could Gordon be?' It was left anonymously in our 'Drop Off Your Needles' box. Normally they pitch these as pranks, but with the Joker out there and the Commissioner missing…"  
  
"And let me guess, you didn't have the bomb squad check it out?"  
  
"Sure I did. They X-rayed it and everything, couldn't find a thing. The lab opened it and found a note. They said it was safe enough so here you go, sir."  
  
Harvey takes the note and scans it quickly, "Jeezus! How long until sunset?"  
  
"Three hours and forty-six minutes, sir!" the officer snaps back.  
  
"Damn you're keen, aren't you?"  
  
…  
  
The sun sets on Gotham at exactly 6:46 pm. 'Three hours and forty-six minutes,' thinks Bullock, 'a freakin' eternity. Damn it, why is it that you need nuts to find other nuts?' He then flips a switch on a panel beside him and instantly a giant spotlight projects the image of a bat above the Gotham skyline. 'He better not take his sweet time,' Harvey thinks, 'otherwise the Commish is a dead man.'  
  
At 7 pm Harvey feels the air pressure change about him and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. "Detective Bullock," a voice calls behind him.  
  
"Jeezus! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Bullock yells upon turning around.  
  
"What do you know about Commissioner Gordon's disappearance?" a very grim dark knight whispers commandingly.  
  
"You make me sick, you know that? Sick! This man's supposed to be your friend and we don't see hide or hair of you for the whole damn day! You're truly a piece of work all right, and if it was up to me you'd be with the rest of the loonies in Arkham. How old was that Robin kid when he met up with Joker's goon on the bridge? Or the others? Damn! You're a freak and you draw out other screwier, deadlier freaks towards not only you, but all of US too! Here, this came for you, from one nut to another!" Bullock shoves the Joker's note onto Batman's chest over his emblem. Harvey then turns around and switches the Bat-signal off. "Get off my roof."  
  
Bullock feels the air lighten around him. "If he dies, freak, you'll have to live with it! If he dies, I'll make sure you never forget as you ROT IN HELL!!"  
  
…  
  
Along the ledge of one of Gotham's more ancient skyscrapers sit a collage of sculpted gargoyles. A sullen and brooding collection of images of yesteryear, except for one particularly human gargoyle. Holding his penlight in his mouth the Batman is precariously balanced on the ledge as he reads the Joker's note 40 storeys in the atmosphere.  
  
'Where Batman began or Gordon ends at 8 pm.'  
  
'Crime alley,' thinks Batman, 'but how could he know? Gordon?'  
  
It's 7:15.  
  
…  
  
At 7:30 pm the Batman peers down at Crime Alley from the roof of a nearby building through a pair of high power binoculars. The night vision feature allows him to make out everything below. 'Nothing,' he thinks, 'a dead end. Wait.' Something catches his eye.  
  
The Batman immediately jumps down the 5 stories, rolls with the fall to save his knees upon landing and rushes to several small fragments in a neat pile to one corner. Small wooden fragments of a pipe. 'The kind Gordon uses.' And beneath the pile, another note:  
  
'Too late! Just kidding. To the warehouse at the corner of 5th and McCaul. Come ALONE or ELSE! Now I'm being serious.'  
  
'He does know!'  
  
TO BE CONTINUED… 


	3. Friendly Fire

Chapter 3: Friendly Fire  
  
One can gauge the health of Gotham by its docks. Once they were bustling with activity, ships docking, unloading cargo, men and women hard at work, a sign of Gotham City's wealth and prosperity. Now they lie vacant with nary a sign of life, the eerie calm only momentarily broken by waves lapping against the land, or a sudden splash signifying another flight from this world. The docks now represent Gotham's fall from grace. 'Of course the Joker would choose such a place,' thinks the dark knight, 'Such misery suits him well. Must be like home to him.'  
  
The Joker chose the perfect time as well, and the dark knight frowns at this. 8 pm, when darkness is young and the streets are filled with a bustling populace, making the sky, the quickest and most taxing route, his only means of travel. It took him 25 minutes to swing across town from Crime Alley to the warehouse and another minute to gain a vantage point on the roof. He looks at his watch. 7:55 pm. Peering through the only skylight he sees a circle of light directly below, the only lit section in the entire building. In the centre of the light a purple zoot-suited and fedora wearing Joker, with a gun in one hand and a watch in the other, stands in front of a bound and gagged Gordon who is wearing the same fedora. Joker then lifts the gun slowly towards the Commissioner's temple and Gordon defiantly stares at it, his eyes filled with rage.  
  
'You're early, Joker,' Batman thinks. 'Why is it you never make it easy?'  
  
The Batman reaches behind his back and unhooks the Huntress' crossbow. Firmly gripping the weapon he leaps through the skylight, igniting a rain of glass shards upon the two men below. As the Joker cocks his gun the Batman aims and fires a single bolt. Despite the millions of glass particles falling down not one deflects the bolt from its path into the Joker's gun wielding hand. The Joker's hand painfully spasms and he drops the gun as Batman softly lands between him and Gordon.  
  
Recovering quickly the Batman reaches behind his back and removes Robin's collapsible bo-staff from his utility belt. With lightning reflexes he rams the collapsed bo into Joker's gut, then in a single motion snaps the bo open with his right hand and uses it to give a crushing uppercut. His left hand follows with a blow to Joker's right cheek causing the mad clown to stagger backwards in a daze. The Batman then rushes at him.  
  
'Damn it Joker, why do you always make it so hard? Why?' The Batman sees his two hands grab the bo as he prepares to crush it across Joker's windpipe. 'Why...why is there white powder on my left glove?' Instantly the Batman hears the telltale click of a gun about to fire and he smacks the bo hard to the ground in mid-stride and uses it as a pole vault to leap over his still stunned foe. As Batman reaches the top of his leap a hail of gunfire erupts, riddling the air with dozens of deadly projectiles. Several strike the mad clown and his body jerks as each one finds its mark, another punches the bo staff square in the centre, shattering it, while yet another pierces Batman's left shoulder. Adjusting for the loss of the bo the Batman rolls with the landing and upon recovery reaches for Batgirl's batarang with line and hurls it towards the flashing muzzle lurking just outside the light's reach. It twists around its target and Batman pulls on the line with Herculean strength. Into the light comes the Tommy gun with two purple gloved hands gripping it firmly, and stumbling after it, another Joker!  
  
"You want it so bad, here you go!" the Joker yells as he releases his grip just as Batman gives another tug on the line. The Batman catches the gun and hurls it aside deep into the darkness.  
  
"Oops, looks as though I've gone and killed myself!" the Joker remarks upon looking at the pale faced corpse nearby. "Well, not really me, just a reasonable facsimile. You certainly took your time in figuring that out, Batman. Maybe you've lost something since we last met. Don't worry, we'll find out soon enough. Please make yourself comfortable while I look for another gun, after all, my house is your house."  
  
The Batman merely reaches back once more and removes Nightwing's fighting sticks from his utility belt. Gripping them firmly he prepares for combat. The Joker responds by removing the remote from his pocket. "Here, this will help you relax," the Joker sneers as he presses down on the power button. The TV flickers on and a children's puppet show appears.  
  
"Ever have one of those days?" the Joker remarks shaking his head in disbelief. The Batman begins to run at his adversary, but just before he reaches the Joker two powerful arms grab him from behind and fold into a vice-like choke hold stopping him cold.  
  
"Hey! Guess I pushed the right button after all!" Joker laughs as he steps back into the darkness. "Play nice children! Daddy will be back soon!"  
  
Struggling for air the Batman smashes one of the sticks back into his assailant's face. The grip loosens and Batman follows with two more swift blows. Free! The Batman then takes two steps forward, turns and enters a fighting stance. Now he looks at his opponent for the first time.  
  
"Jim?"  
  
A contorted look of pure hatred is the Commissioner's only reply. He then lunges at Batman, fists flailing wildly. Each swipe is expertly parried with the fighting sticks.  
  
"Jim. Fight it," the Batman pleads as the two duel. Still the blows come at him.  
  
'The punches, they're fast. Too fast for someone the Commissioner's age. He's got augmented speed,' the Batman thinks.  
  
"Jim...please. I don't want to hurt you."  
  
Still more wild swings. Each one is deflected, but the Batman's energy is waning. A night of rooftop travel and battle has begun to take its toll.  
  
'What has the Joker done to you?' Already his wounded shoulder aches with fatigue. 'Drugs? Hypnosis? What's the trigger? The TV?'  
  
The Batman momentarily stops his dodging to hurl one of the fighting sticks at the television. As the set explodes upon impact the Commissioner takes advantage of the opening and delivers a sledgehammer of a punch to the Batman's stomach. He falls to his knees and spits blood as the punches continue. The Batman tries to absorb them, "Jim...please..." He grips the stick in his two hands, using it as a focus, forcing himself to absorb the pain, to avoid hurting his friend. The stick soon snaps into two sharpened fragments.  
  
Out of desperation Batman points a fragment upwards just as the Commissioner sends another blow crashing down. At first the Commissioner doesn't notice as his arm is impaled, but after a moment he steps back and pulls the stick out! The Batman steps back as well to catch his breath. He looks down at the remaining fragment in his hand and shakes his head in disbelief. He tosses it aside.  
  
'Not the TV,' he thinks. 'Not drugs. He's too fast and strong. He has his wits. But what else can give him the strength and tolerance to pain?'  
  
"Damn it! You're 60 years old, Jim! If you keep this pace up it'll kill you!"  
  
The Commissioner charges Batman, and with his heightened speed manages to tackle him. The sudden impact jars Batman's senses and as the Commissioner looms over him, fists striking across his face, he finally notices the purple fedora. 'Just like one the phoney Joker wore. Of course!'  
  
Under constant battering the Batman reaches up and manages to pry the hat off the Commissioner's head causing Gordon to scream in agony as he falls to the ground face first. The Batman rises unsteadily to his feet and removes a small device from within the hat. 'Of course,' he thinks, 'one of the Mad Hatter's mind-control devices!' He grabs his wounded shoulder and winces. His body aches as he looks at his unconscious friend, 'Damn it, why didn't I see it sooner? Why?'  
  
As if in answer to Batman's thoughts Gordon gurgles "help."  
  
Batman takes his friend and sets him up against a nearby wooden crate.  
  
"I'm sorry, Jim. I'm sorry, I..." he murmurs as he tries to tend to Gordon's more serious wounds with the limited first aid kit in his utility belt.  
  
"Save it," Gordon mumbles, blood dripping from his face as he speaks, letting his mutilated arm lay limp at his side. "I told you to think...and you did...eventually..."  
  
"This time," Batman responds. "The Joker, he's known since the bridge, I'm not the same. It's his turf, his rules. This whole place is a deathtrap and even at my best it would be touch and go, but now...now I nearly killed you!"  
  
"I know," Gordon answers. "You've still got to stop him, still got to try. If he gets by us, how many more will die? How many more friends will we have to bury?" Gordon can feel his strength fade as he struggles to stay on his feet, "I'm no use like this...it's up to you... any means necessary...war..." and his head droops down.  
  
The Batman finishes his first aid work, hands his friend his belt radio and gives him the gun the fake Joker had. He knows the radio won't pierce the walls of this building, the Joker is too smart to allow that, but at least this will give Gordon hope.  
  
The Batman reaches up into his mask and feels for a bullet shaped scar he knows isn't there before setting off into the darkness after the Joker.  
  
"Any means necessary...war..." Gordon repeats in a whisper. As Batman leaves the Commissioner manages to lift his head and look through his blood soaked face to notice an unmistakable silver shine on Batman's utility belt.  
  
'Dear lord,' thinks Gordon, 'what have I done?'  
  
TO BE CONTINUED… 


	4. The Gauntlet

Chapter 4: The Gauntlet I  
  
The Joker is a consummate trickster and dramatist of the worst degree, making any step outside his set path a veritable minefield. Therefore as the Batman exits the circle of light, leaving his battered friend behind, he enters the darkness the exact same way Joker had done so before him. Night-vision goggles ensure the pitch blackness is as bright as day to the Batman. He pauses and notes that the wooden crates surrounding him make a very singular path. 'He wants me to follow him, to enter his gauntlet,' the Batman thinks. Outlined in the dust are the Joker's own footprints and he uses them as a guide. Each step forward is a cautious one. It seems to take an eternity before he arrives to a cold steel wall with a single opening. A voice calls from within, "Come in Batman! Come in! I promise to play fair this one time. You can find me at the end of this passage, if you survive of course."  
  
The Batman hesitates and scans the area.  
  
"Don't bother," The voice calls again, "This is a bunker. Two inches of steel protect me from you, and I'm beside the only exit from this building. Only I know where it goes. You can either enter and play by my rules, or I end this…unpleasantly."  
  
The Batman thinks of his friend and what he had said earlier. 'This is war,' he thinks, 'the Joker cannot escape.' With that he enters the opening.  
  
Once inside the exit is quickly sealed by a sliding steel door which clicks in place. At the same time the room lights up in a brilliant radiance that magnifies through Batman's light amplifying goggles, blinding the dark knight. He removes the goggles and shuts his eyes. He listens for any telltale sounds of the trap being sprung, but there's nothing. Nothing at all, aside from the Joker's voice being broadcasted. "Sorry about that Bats. Or should I say Bruce? Your friend Gordon didn't really believe it, you know. He only suspected. Lucky for him he was right or he'd have a bullet in the head instead of a mangled arm, and you'd be out another compadre!"  
  
Batman's eyes start to adjust to the light. He opens them and sees a blur.  
  
"Poor Bruce. Lost your mommy and daddy? Tell you what. Since you're my favourite playmate, Bruce ole' pal, I've spared no expense to make you feel right at home! First off I've managed to put together some family photos…"  
  
Batman's eyes are able to focus now. What he sees would send any normal man back and would either fill him with rage or madness. All around him are images taken from various sources, depicting a man and woman. Each face is covered by a cut-out photograph of Bruce's mother's or father's kindly face. And the images themselves, pasted all about the room, depict every form of debauchery two human beings could be subject to. Whatever a sick mind could imagine was there, and each victim was either Bruce Wayne's mom or dad! Each and EVERY ONE!  
  
Yet Batman did not flinch, nor did he even seem to notice. Instead he notes the camera and speaker in one corner of the room. He notes the closed door behind him and another door ahead of him. 'Both two inches of steel, no doubt,' he utters silently. He notes four walls and a ceiling, all likely thick steel as well. And finally he notes the tell-tale smell of gasoline in the air.  
  
"Sorry again, Bats. It must be hard seeing your mom and dad so vibrant and full of life! Tell you what; since I'm such a gracious host I'll get rid of them for you!"  
  
The camera then crackles and pops, emitting bright sparks as it overloads which ignite the paper laden and gasoline soaked room. 'No use trying the belt extinguisher,' Batman thinks, 'it's not powerful enough to put out a gasoline fuelled blaze.' Instead he calmly walks over to the next door and feels around it. 'A sliding door,' he thinks, 'It could be pushed off its hinges. Two inches thick, but I've got no choice.' The Batman begins to push against the door. The Joker laughs.  
  
"That's two inches of steel, Batman! No one can push through it! No one!"  
  
Muscles tense and bulge as he heaves with all his might at the cold steel. At first time seems to stand still, until a screech is heard as the door begins to give way. Flames begin to lick at his boots and despite the fireproof material his costume is laden with the Batman can feel the heat building, sapping his strength. He keeps pushing with unrelenting pressure until the door finally gives way and bends into the adjacent room. Batman quickly enters and shoves the door back as best he could to keep both flame and smoke out.  
  
"Good job, Batman," another loudspeaker calls directly adjacent to him. "I've spent years putting this place together into my perfect dream house, and in all that planning you'd think I'd have purchased a better brand of door. Oh well, live and learn. Say, do you like home movies, chum?"  
  
A projector starts up on cue and shines an image across the dark room, projecting it on the opposite wall. The Batman continues to stand as close to the door he entered through as possible. A movie flickers across the wall and Batman recognizes the footage. This was the only recording of the bridge to catch every painful moment, including the final, deadly explosion. And when it ends, it starts anew in an endless loop.  
  
"See Bruce, you've always been a loser. In our game the score is kept by body counts, and you're way behind. That's probably why I enjoy playing so much, you always let me win!" he laughs. "I mean look at you, trying to catch me in some bizarre hide-and-seek after each of my wacky adventures, and what do you do when I'm caught? Knock me out and stick me in a straight jacket. Look, I kill 25 people…BAM…KO, straight jacket. 100 people…BAM…KO, straight jacket. 1000 people…BAM…KO, straight jacket. I kill some of your closest associates and what do you do? BAM, straight jacket! Good lord man! If you ask me you belong in the straight jacket."  
  
The Batman continues to stand rooted to the spot.  
  
"Let's revue today's events to prove you're loony. You let some poor schmoe dressed like me get killed. You battle you're best, and probably only living friend, and if you didn't kill him you must have come close. I could hear his scream even in here, good job!" Another laugh follows before the mad clown continues, "You've lost it, my friend. Absolutely, completely, lost it. Maybe you'd like to come with me to Arkham and get your own straight jacket? Hey, we could be bunkies! Why don't you just step through the door and seal the deal."  
  
At that instant a door slides open at the other end of the room. He would have to pass the projector in order to reach it and the next stage of his torment. But what lies between?  
  
The Batman removes his cape and hurls it into the centre of the room. making as big a target as possible. It falls with a thud due to its lead weighted tapered ends. Upon impact the movie's sound is drowned out as machine guns beyond the projector, in the darkest part of the room, spit out their deadly projectiles. Batman braces himself against the wall as he feels and hears hundreds of bullets whiz by mere inches away. The barrage seems infinite, and all at once, as suddenly as it began, the guns are silent. He then leaps to his cape, puts it on, and leaps to the open doorway. At the door he takes Alfred's handgun from the utility belt and fires a single round at the loudspeaker/camera. He then removes his left boot and wedges it in the doorway before stepping into the third darkened room.  
  
"Bravo, Bruce, bravo! And what's this, a nice and shiny silver gun? Have you finally decided to play by my rules? Afraid it's too little too late." Batman can hear the door slide shut, but his boot prevents it from closing completely. He then hears liquid gushing in through all four walls from hundreds of tiny holes. "Hear that? That room is about to fill with the very compound that made me the man I am today. Well, not exactly the same. This stuff is at least 10 times more corrosive, noxious, and all round nastier. Nose filters, gas mask, whatever, they won't do any good when you're drinking it. And forget about the door. It's not the same piece of crap I used on you earlier. And forget about going forward... there isn't another door!" The Joker venom begins to rise. "Well, this looks like the end of the road. It's been a blast. If you don't mind, I'll just watch you squirm…"  
  
The Batman merely walks over to the door and slides it open. He puts his boot back on and enters the projector room. He closes the door as best he can so that only a trickle of the joker venom flows in. Standing against the wall he removes the acetylene torch from his utility belt and brings its lit flame down close to the seeping liquid. 'Such a concentrated form of the liquid may be flammable,' he thinks.  
  
It is.  
  
The flame ignites into a small fire that follows the trail of liquid into the adjacent room and becomes a raging inferno. The Batman braces himself as the flames continue to spread up seeping trails and out into giant vats located against the flooding chamber. The concentrated vats then flicker with flame for only a moment before exploding with the force of cannons! After the initial spectacular explosions cease Batman opens the door and runs through the flame into the opening they created. Just beyond the fire Joker can be seen with Tommy gun in hand trying to make his exit. 'This is war,' the Batman thinks. Like a possessed demon he runs at the Joker through the fiery inferno and becomes a bat out of hell as he leaps through the final wall of fire. He lands and aims Alfred's handgun. The Joker simultaneously turns and aims his machine gun.  
  
"Well well," the Joker starts, "this looks like a good ole' Mexican standoff, with one crucial difference. We both know you'll never pull that trigger. Your moral fibre may allow you to shoot a camera, but not a human being. Besides, kill me Brucie boy and you'll never see Mommy and Daddy. You'll end up spending your time in places much hotter than this. So I'll just end this farce right now!"  
  
A sickening shot and a man falls, blood flowing from an open wound. He grabs his gut and tries to stem the tide in vain. A gun falls beside him as he tries to stay conscious…  
  
TO BE CONTINUED… 


	5. Winners and Losers

Chapter 5: Winners and Losers  
  
"Gut shot. Nice, painfully slow way to go," the Joker giggles. He shoves his hand deep into his wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. The mad clown manages to get to his feet and looks Batman in the eyes, "I didn't know you had it in you."  
  
Alfred's smoking gun remains in Batman's firm grip, the barrel pointing at the Joker's heart.  
  
"I could have run, you know, and lived to fight another day, only I had to be sure," Joker smiles politely as he stares down at his bloodied shirt, "Now I'm sure. Besides, why would I want to end our game so prematurely, especially when it's getting so much better?"  
  
"It's over now," Batman frowns.  
  
"I don't think so," Joker continues. He swallows, hard, before slowly moving on, "You didn't let me tell the joke…you were born when your parents died. You've fought in Gotham night in and night out to save lives, only to see even more join the reaper's ranks. You surrounded yourself with a small army of friends, family, and whatever else you could find, only to watch them suffer through excruciatingly painful deaths as well. Yet through this, all of this, you wouldn't add to the number. You wouldn't kill in order to stop the killing, you wouldn't end it then when your buddies were still around. No. You've decided that now, NOW you're going to do the deed! When it doesn't matter anymore, when there's nothing left to fight for, you find the moxy to end it properly! Funny, eh?" the Joker grins his sadistic smile. "Well, Bruce, do you have what it takes to add the punch-line?"  
  
The Batman's face fills with a look of terror as beads of cold sweat pour down. His hand begins to shake ever so slightly as the trigger is eased back. The Joker's face contorts from a sadistic sneer to a disbelieving, wide-eyed glare, "Son of a…"  
  
Several Technicolor explosions rock the warehouse, followed by hundreds of smaller pops and whizzes. Some nearby crates topple over, lodging themselves between the two adversaries and igniting almost instantaneously. Never one to miss a cue the Joker saunters away from the blaze, and Batman. He feels like laughing, the situation demands it, yet he finds himself unable to. 'Something's changed in Bats alright,' the clown thinks, 'something deeper than the bridge.'  
  
Batman screams in rage on the other side of the fiery barricade as he realizes what he's done. The blaze he had begun in the gauntlet, his means of escape, has now ignited Joker's cache of arms and fireworks and in turned saved the grinning madman as well! His finger repeatedly jerks back on the trigger in sheer frustration and several rounds fly into the crates. His gun now empty the Batman places it on his utility belt. He then grabs Joker's misplaced Tommy gun and runs back, towards Gordon.  
  
Shielding the gun from the flames with his fireproof cape the Batman retraces his steps in breakneck speed as shrapnel darts in and out of the world around him. Explosions have created openings allowing him to bypass the gauntlet and he soon spots his friend, still and unmoving in the circle of light. Without a lost stride he bends down and lifts him. Cradling Gordon in his arms he runs to the nearest loading bay as the air explodes around them both.  
  
"We've got no time to find an exit, Jim, so we'll just have to make one!"  
  
The Batman fires at the metallic bay door in short bursts, one after the other, weakening the metal barrier. He then kicks and punches at the door with desperate efficiency until it gives. Widening the opening he proceeds to drag his unconscious friend out of the burning warehouse and manages to gain 50 yards outside before it completely collapses.  
  
Checking his friend's pulse he's amazed to find James Gordon is still alive. Soon he hears sirens approaching and vanishes into the night. Burnt, shoulder throbbing and body aching he looks on as his friend is taken away in an ambulance…  
  
…  
  
A dark clad figure glares down at the skylight before him and through cowl covered eyes peers into a squalid apartment where several Demonz gang members are meeting. One pulls out a large briefcase full of neatly bundled dollars, while the one next to him smiles broadly.  
  
The glass smashes into thousands of pieces as the intruder's gunfire makes its entrance in the middle of the apartment. Bullets fly with reckless abandon from his Tommy gun, riddling each occupant with enough lead to turn human flesh inside-out. Finally the onslaught halts as a black gloved finger eases off the trigger. His face is covered in a cold sweat; his eyes are blazing as he turns back from the carnage below the skylight and steps into the darkness.  
  
…  
  
Insanity is all about him, and waiting to claim him as well. His lithe body is well concealed by the grey suit and tie, his hair is dark and slicked back, and with the moustache firmly in place none of the inmates should recognize him, yet he still paces across the sparsely decorated office. He can hear them, just beyond the door, screaming at invisible phantoms and cursing existence. How close is he to joining their ranks? A scrawny wisp of a man enters, his face obscured slightly by a pair of glasses and untamed hair. He sits behind the desk and gestures for his grey garbed guest to join him.  
  
"Well, officer?" Dr. Arkham begins, seeking a name to go with his guest's face.  
  
"Detective MacMurtney will do fine, doctor," the man answers in a gruff voice as he unfolds a notepad from his pocket.  
  
Dr. Arkham leans back in his leather chair, "I'm well acquainted with Gotham's finest detectives, as you could imagine, but your name escapes my memory."  
  
MacMurtney smiles dryly, "Just promoted."  
  
Dr. Arkham smirks, "Alright, what do you need 'detective'? We haven't had a single escape since the Joker broke out, and your peers have already questioned us about that. What on earth could you possibly want?"  
  
"The Joker's escape," MacMurtney replies as Dr. Arkham rolls his eyes, "What was the name of his attending doctor at the time?"  
  
Dr. Arkham erupts, "We went through this! Dr. Marcus was as much a victim as anyone! You can't still suspect him of collusion!"  
  
"So he still works here?"  
  
"Of course he does! He's been with us for over 2 years, and is one of the most brilliant and respected men in his field. I think I've been more than gracious. I don't know who you are, but you're no detective. To sit here and answer questions from what is most likely a scandal sheet reporter who's going to sell a few papers at the expense of my Asylum is more than I can bear," Arkham sighs, "I will give you the opportunity to leave with your dignity intact. Fail this and my orderlies will toss you out. Good day!"  
  
MacMurtney smirks and rises from his seat. He walks out of Dr. Arkham's office and soon reaches the street below, where his grin becomes much larger.  
  
…  
  
Detective Harvey Bullock has seen it all. Muggings gone wrong; gang hits; murders of passion; guilt; envy; greed…you name it. 'And this,' he thinks as he surveys the damage of only a few hours ago, 'this is vigilante justice.'  
  
Around him are littered the bodies of seven Demonz members, with an open case containing $100,000 lying in the centre, untouched. The door was locked and unscathed until officers were forced to break it down. His thoughts focus on the task at hand as he reviews the facts. 'No one saw anyone enter or leave the place. Then again, this isn't the kind of neighbourhood where people poke their heads outta their doors at the sound of gunfire. Still, if it was a gang hit, they would have heard something at street level.'  
  
Above is a shattered skylight. 'There are hundreds of shell casings littered on the roof, and no clue of how the perp got up there, or down. The guy(s) would have to be pretty good acrobats to get from up here to the street below. Or he'd have to have a very good grapple.' Something crosses Harvey's mind.  
  
Nearby the coroner is busy at work. Curious, he pauses and looks up at Bullock, "So what've you got this time Harv?"  
  
"Gangs," he replies. 'Come back soon Commish,' he thinks.  
  
…  
  
It's been three weeks since James Gordon was hospitalized after his latest run in with the Joker, three long weeks of pain and agony because of wounds inflicted by his best friend, the Batman. Three long weeks of wondering what has become of the dark knight since that night of absolute hell. Now he's sitting behind his desk, listening to the murmur of a very busy police department beyond the office door. It does him proud to know that he's taken one of the most corrupt departments in the nation and built it up to one of the best during his tenure. 'This is my legacy, Barbara,' he thinks.  
  
Outside the roar of a siren can be heard and it takes every bit of will power he has to remain seated. 'Old habits die hard,' he thinks. Reaching into the desk Gordon removes his revolver and holds it in his left hand. 'I've always been a right shot,' he thinks, 'not a left.' Stubbornly he puts the gun in his right hand. His sling supported right arm, the one that was impaled and suffered nerve damage, aches. The doctors told him it would never function again. He tenaciously wraps his fingers around the gun and winces as sharp needles stab at him. Somehow he holds on and manages to put a finger in the trigger before sub coming to the pain and letting go. Catching the gun with his left he smiles. 'Doctors…'  
  
Someone knocks on his office door and the Commissioner makes out a very large shadow and smiles again, 'Bullock.'  
  
"Come in," he yells.  
  
Det. Bullock enters and ends up smashing the door against a nearby chair. He gives an embarrassed smile and shuts the door, almost slamming it while trying not to trip over the chair. He then sits on the chair and smiles warmly at the Commissior.  
  
"It's good ta' have ya' back, Commish," he starts.  
  
"So, what brings you?" Gordon responds.  
  
"You've got a lot of reports on your desk there, Commish. I wuz just wunderin' if ya' got to mine yet?"  
  
"Afraid not, but since you're here you might as well give me what you've got."  
  
"Sure, I've got something," Harvey begins nervously, "You know of the late night killings that have been going down since you've been away. Hell, everyone does, it's been on the news long enough. I've been blabbing to everyone that it's gangs offin' each other…" he pauses.  
  
Gordon interjects, "But…"  
  
"…but it ain't. Some of the others on the force think I've gone nuts or something, holding this back. Some of them, like Crispus, know it ain't no gang war. There's no pattern, no rivalries, no word on the street to suggest a war, or hit, or rogue member popping buddies. None of that. All the evidence I've been holding back, it all points to something else…" Harvey pauses once more.  
  
"What does it point to?"  
  
"Batman."  
  
The Commissioner rolls his eyes and slouches back into his chair. "You really think it's the Batman?" Gordon asks.  
  
"Well, a lot of it is roof top work, done at night and real neat, with no witnesses. Yeah, I think Bats has lost it."  
  
"I don't think so, my friend," Gordon begins, "I know how you feel about Batman and can see how you'd jump to such a conclusion so easily, only you're wrong. How many times have we had someone dress up as a flying rat to try and discredit him over the years? 20? I've got a huge file on this crap and I really doubt it's our Batman going around and killing gang members."  
  
"You said it yourself, Commish, that he's changed since the bridge. And after the hell you've both been through, well, you've got to admit this is by far the worst case of doubt you've ever had."  
  
"No," Gordon answers quickly, yet softly, shaking his head, "It's not him,"  
  
"Fine, I'll keep at it," Bullock answers as he rises from his seat. "I just thought you should know, is all. I know he's your friend, Commish, and I respect that, really, but he's also a nutcase and I think he's cracked. If I'm right…" Bullock shrugs and walks out of the office. In an uncharacteristic gesture he gently closes the door behind him.  
  
Gordon reaches for the gun on his desk. 'Suddenly, being able to hold one of these doesn't seem as pleasant,' he thinks as he shoves the weapon in his pocket…  
  
TO BE CONTINUED… 


	6. Enter the Green and the Red

Chapter 6: Enter the Green and Red  
  
Her name was once Poison, but now it's only Ivy. For the past five years she has enjoyed the confinement of Dr. Arkham's asylum, and its garden in particular. Designed, grown, and nurtured by her, she now spends most of her time pruning it. Sadly, few of the other inmates bother to walk through and enjoy the vivid colours and euphoric aroma it provides, leaving her alone to tend to a broken stem as she reminisces about the creature that made it all possible.  
  
She was originally confined to the darkest corner of the asylum, forbidden to grow anything less it be poison, until HE entered the cell, as if from nowhere. The air around him stank of rot and decay, yet was also permeated with the pungent odour of sap and chlorophyll. Buds burst forth from his main and very human form, with vines and stems tangling about in short growths. His eyes were orbs of bright red fire that gave away the creature's true nature with their sullen and mournful appearance.  
  
With a single gesture from his bizarrely beautiful arm a jungle was brought forth within the cell, sending Ivy into ecstasy as the grass tickled her toes and vines wrapped themselves around. Seemingly an eternity since she'd seen such voluptuous growth she provided a joyous dance as the creature spoke with a gravel like voice, offering her the selfsame ability. Her answer was resolute, "You mean be able to talk with the plants? Listen to their thoughts? It's what I've always wanted!"  
  
A single touch upon her brow sent her senses reeling as she heard them all, plant and animal alike, claw through her mind! She managed a single scream before weakly falling to her knees. "You lied to me!" she scowled, like a little schoolgirl cheated of her favourite toy, "You said I could talk to plants, not those…those beasts! You…"  
  
The creature then spoke, his tone unchanged, "Flesh and blood, sap and bark, all life is of the earth and reside within its folds as different branches of the same tree. Everything is connected. Your life is connected to ALL others, it is nature's way." With that he and the lush garden were gone, save for a small sprout in-between the cracked floor. The guards were made to sleep through this brief visit and awoke upon his departure. None suspected she had a late night visitor then, or each subsequent evening when he returned to hone her new skills. Over time the strength and conviction of his words made Ivy renounce her hatred as misplaced and unnecessary. 'If everything is connected, then by striking at any living creature I was ultimately hurting myself as well,' she reasoned. To make amends for her past she chose to stay in the asylum.  
  
Her dream ends with a look at her garden, '5 years…in Eden…'  
  
Ivy smiles and continues to tend the plants as the sun begins to set. Nearby she hears the thoughts of some inmates become darker, almost in sync with the dimming light. Her red hair seems especially fiery now as the changing light appears to ignite the colours around her into extremes. This is always her favourite time of day and she pauses to enjoy it completely. Suddenly a voice calls out, "Red!" and a figure leaps, summersaults in the air over Ivy's head and lands in-between her and the setting sun. Ending the gymnastic feat with a perfect Y formation that would be the envy of any Olympian this blonde, pig-tailed girl then turns and faces Ivy in her asylum issued blue pants and shirt, wearing a very proud grin, "Tada!"  
  
"Harley!" Ivy exclaims, overjoyed at her friend's surprise visit. For some reason Ivy's mental talents are useless when it comes to Harley. "You seem back to your old self, and spry as ever. Glad Arkham's cooking hasn't gotten to you." Ivy's atrocious joke prompts Harley to roll her eyes and shake her head, as if to say better luck next time.  
  
"Oh, it's not so bad," Harleen Quinzel answers in her typical squeaky and shaky fun-filled voice, "with friends like you around to provide comic relief. Besides, it let me be close to Mr. J…" Harley's shoulders then slouch and she looks sadly into the ground.  
  
"Hey now, will you quit with the grieving? He was a psychotic madman who always treated you horribly and came close to killing you several times!"  
  
"Yeah, I know," Harley responds, sadly, "that's what made him so special."  
  
Ivy sighs. Harley's always been infatuated with the Joker, and hearing of his possible demise had made her inconsolable these past weeks. Ivy even tried reading Joker's thoughts to see if he was still alive, just to cheer Harley up, but her hatred of the clown made it impossible.  
  
"Say, uhm," Harley begins, slightly perkier with her hands behind her back like when a small child is about to ask a parent for a favour, "could you," she continues, nervously twitching her left leg into the ground, "well, could you maybe bust me out of here so I could go see him?"  
  
"What?!"  
  
Harley steps back from an enraged Ivy, putting her hands up she starts very shakily, "C'mon Red, it ain't crazy! It's over for me and Mr. J, what with him buried under tons of rock and me happily hooked up in Arkham there's no way I'd go back to him! All I want is to visit his final resting place and get a few things off my chest, you know? Just bury the hatchet and get some closure (as the psychiatrist in me would say). You know…yipe!...and when I'm through I'll come right back and continue my therapy like a good girl…stop looking at me like that…and we'll be best buds until we're toothless old grannies…okay?" At this point Harley is trying to smile with a very angry looking Ivy right in her face. Ivy then turns her back. "Red?"  
  
"Fine Harley, I'll let you out. After all, he is buried under tons of rock, and you did promise to come right back, didn't you?"  
  
"Uh huh," Harley says meekly.  
  
"The sun's just set, so out you go!" Ivy has a big grin on her face as she raises her arm, causing a tree root to quickly sprout up from underneath Harley with enough force as to launch her over the asylum wall, causing her to land flat on her behind!  
  
"Ow! Give a girl some warning next time why-don't-ya!" Harley yells from over the wall as she rubs her sore posterior. She could hear Ivy laughing on the other side. "Alright Red, you had your fun, but I've got to go now! Byeeeee!" With a leap Harley begins tumbling down the darkened street towards Gotham City.  
  
"Good-bye Harl! See you soon…I hope…"  
  
…  
  
'It's bad enough driving with one-arm,' thinks Gordon, 'but having to drive with one arm to this place is by far the worst.' He winces as he jars his injured arm while turning into the police guarded rubble of what once was the Joker's dockside warehouse. Pulling up to several parked squad cars he eases himself out and slowly makes his way to the edge of the police barricade. Waiting for him is Merkel, a veteran of the force and one of Gordon's most trusted officers. Bullock assigned him the job of cleaning up the mess, and Merkel was only too happy to oblige, until he found out how difficult it was.  
  
"Merk," the Commissioner opens with a smile.  
  
"Jim! It's good to see you up and about!" Merkel replies with an even bigger grin that makes Gordon shudder, if only for a moment. The two men exchange the customary greetings and then continue on with business.  
  
"I saw your new car," Merkel starts, "it's in much nicer shape than your old one. We found it underwater under the pier. Here, some divers found this and I thought you'd like it back." Merkel removes a small wallet from his pocket and hands it to the Commissioner. The Commissioner opens it and looks inside, surveying the damage. The photos are still there, intact. Smiling he puts the wallet in a pocket of his trench coat.  
  
"Thanks," he says as he tries to hide the lump in his throat. Searching for a change of subject the Commissioner gestures to the pile of rubble beyond the police barricade and asks "So why's this garbage still here?"  
  
"Why? The Joker was involved and is probably still buried under there, that's why. The few men who did try to clear the mess out were turned back by fumes that penetrated their masks, and then there's still the danger of unspent explosives on the premises. To top it all off, some yahoos are spreading stories of laughter and strange noises coming from the pile late at night! No one wants to touch this clean up job so we're asking the military to come in! At least they have some success with war zones…"  
  
"Do you think the Joker could have gotten away?" the Commissioner asks.  
  
"It's possible. We actually tried echo location, heat detection and some other techniques with Gotham U, and nothing's come up."  
  
Gordon frowns, "So he's dead, escaped or alive and buried? In other words, we've got no clue."  
  
"Bingo. Oh yeah, we found something else you might be interested in," Merkel removes a small plastic bag from another pocket. Within it is a handgun that appears to be right out of World War II, along with six casings.  
  
"We found that the second night here, over by that alley in the trash," Merkel says, pointing. "It's too old to really be owned by a street thug. Maybe a veteran was walking home and lost it, or maybe it was stolen. I don't know, really. We checked the serial number and it's unregistered. No fingerprints either. We don't have any reports of shooting victims with that type of bullet, or of any dealers missing such a gun. The Joker used a vintage Tommy gun, so maybe this is his antique?"  
  
Gordon ignores Merkel's suggestions. He knows exactly where this gun came from. He saw it before, on that night of hell he can never forget, when the warehouse was more than rubble. It was on Batman's utility belt as he was leaving to face the Joker.  
  
"Thanks, I'll take it in," Gordon responds sombrely.  
  
"No problem. Bullock said you'd be interested in it anyway. It's why I didn't take it in earlier," Merkel smiles, "It's getting late Jim, how about a drink?"  
  
Gordon tries to muster a smile, "Another time, I've still got to visit a sick friend..."  
  
TO BE CONTINUED… 


	7. Confrontations

Chapter 7: Confrontations  
  
As he anxiously drives to Wayne Manor, Commissioner Gordon goes over Det. Bullock's file on the recent string of vigilante slayings in his mind. 'Empty cartridges found at a number of the more grisly crime scenes belong to a Tommy gun, Joker's weapon of choice. No fingerprints suggest gloves, and some shots were taken from vantage points that require agility and good climbing gear. A dark costume would also allow movement without being spotted. This seems likely since there aren't any witnesses so far. And to top it all off, there's a gun sitting on the passenger seat of my car, fired six times, that Batman was carrying! But the Batman doesn't use guns, does he?'  
  
Pulling up to the gates of the manor the Commissioner reaches over with his left hand and turns on the comm. panel.  
  
"Who is it?" a cheery voice answers, almost singing.  
  
"Commissioner Gordon of the GCPD!" Gordon responds tersely.  
  
"Goodness, come right in," the voice replies. The gates part and Gordon drives to the manor entrance. He then takes the gun on the passenger seat and slides it into one of his trench coat pockets. Soon he finds himself in front of two gargantuan oaken doors and one opens to reveal a handsome, smiling, dark haired, fair skinned man in his mid-thirties, wearing a white dress shirt and black slacks. Bruce Wayne. "Hello Commissioner! Glad to see you're feeling better! I heard about what happened on the news and was quite worried. Gotham's lucky to have you back!" Bruce says cheerfully, "Come on in! I hope I'm not under arrest or anything…am I?"  
  
Gordon gives Bruce a perplexed look as he makes his way inside. Gordon looks about the manor and notes the dust and sheets covering the furniture.  
  
"Sorry about the mess, Commissioner," Bruce continues, "My butler, Alfred, passed away recently, and I haven't been able to fill his shoes as admirably."  
  
"I know, Bruce, I was at the funeral."  
  
"Right," Bruce gives an embarrassed wince, "anyway, the den's still set for entertaining..."  
  
Gordon enters, still looking perplexed. He sits in a chair directly opposite the fireplace, whose mantle is neatly adorned with photos of absent friends underneath the painting of Bruce's parents. To his great dismay, James Gordon is able to recognize each face in the photos. 'Ghosts,' he thinks. He then notices the lack of anything else in the room. 'What is this? Some sort of shrine?'  
  
"So Commissioner, what can I do for you today? Another donation to the policeman's fund, maybe?"  
  
The Commissioner continues to have a perplexed look on his face, "Cut the crap, Bruce, it's demeaning to both of us. I know who you are. The mind device Joker used may have controlled me, but it left my memories intact. You're Batman. Heck, a part of me probably always knew and just never wanted to admit it."  
  
"I know…" Bruce's demeanour changes almost instantly. Gone is the smiling playboy, replaced with a grim demeanour and deep voice Gordon knows all too well, "…I hoped it hadn't. So, what do you want?" Batman asks.  
  
"I want to know what happened between you and Joker that night."  
  
Batman stays silent as he looks at Gordon. Gordon responds by tossing the bagged WWII handgun onto the floor in front of Batman, who frowns at the sight of it.  
  
"That was Alfred's gun, wasn't it? Sentimental value was probably enough to push you into bringing it when you fought the Joker. After all, you did bring those other weapons AND you used them. So why on earth would you toss it in the trash?"  
  
"Temptation," Batman answers.  
  
Gordon pauses for a second to digest this before moving on, "My question is this; did you shoot AND kill the Joker?"  
  
Batman moves to the fireplace, turning his back to the Commissioner, and looks at his parents' portrait. "I've lost something," Batman begins quietly, slowly, "and I thought bringing the ghosts of my fallen friends and family would make up for it… it didn't." He removes something from a pocket and tosses it to the Commissioner. Gordon looks at the tiny metallic device with curious fascination as Batman continues his narrative, "The Hatter's mind control chip, the one Joker used on you. I thought it could be the edge I needed, so I slid it under my mask after conditioning myself with a hypnotic message: 'Stop Joker, don't kill.' That's it. I didn't expect your continued murmuring about war and any means necessary...so…I shot at him…once in the stomach…"  
  
There is a pause as Gordon takes it in. "Look, you didn't shoot him," he says in a whisper, "You were just the gun. I gave the command; I pulled the trigger. Don't shoulder this, okay?"  
  
"You don't understand, I wanted to…want…" The room is filled with an electric silence for some time before Batman continues, softly, "I've been debating the question, wondering whose fault it is, or if it even matters anymore. I haven't been able to look at the costume since that night, let alone wear it."  
  
'Now that,' thinks Gordon, 'is too pat an answer, considering what's going on with the vigilante slayings.' This thought shames him since he is Batman's friend, yet he's also a cop… "Joker was a psycho and would've killed both of us, Gotham, and anything else that walks or crawls. Lord knows he's killed enough already. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it, okay? Knowing his tactics it was probably self-defence, so calm down," Gordon says, trying to give Batman a way out of murder.  
  
Batman doesn't answer.  
  
"Is he dead?" Gordon asks.  
  
"I don't know. The only entrance was nearby, but he was weak, and with the explosions, and roof collapsing, I'm not sure he got out in time. I suppose we'll know when they clear out the rubble."  
  
"He liked to use a Tommy gun, didn't he? I remember him using one that night. What happened to it?" Gordon asks.  
  
"I don't know," Batman pauses and sighs heavily, "Jim, I keep up to date. There's someone out there killing people and you actually believe it's me, don't you?"  
  
Gordon removes his new pipe and lights it. He takes several long puffs before holding it in front of his eyes to look at the many wood grains that combine to make up the one piece of wood. He turns to Batman, who is still brooding by the fireplace, "I doubt your state of mind right now, Batman. Let's face it, you've always been a little crazy. To dress up in a costume and beat up criminals, you have to be. Considering what you've been through, it's understandable, and the fact you've always tried to serve justice is commendable, but you're still crazy."  
  
Batman continues to brood.  
  
"You also take on all the blame for anything that goes wrong, and that does nothing except drive you closer to the edge. So you go out and try to do some more good, only to screw up and blame yourself again, and inch even closer to the edge. You've been doing this for 15 years, building blame for 15 years, and it was only a matter of time until you snapped. I've been keeping an eye out for signs all this time, you know, and this is the first, THE FIRST time I've ever really been worried."  
  
Batman stays unmoved.  
  
"The bridge wasn't your fault, the Joker wasn't your fault, what happened to me wasn't your fault, Barbara wasn't your fault. Hell, what happened to your parents wasn't your fault. You've saved many, many lives, and it would be a terrible shame if you gave in now, not only to you, but to the Wayne name. What I need from you, for my own piece of mind, is for you to look me in my eyes and tell me you aren't responsible for the vigilante killings."  
  
Batman stays.  
  
"Look at me, damn it!" Gordon yells.  
  
The Batman remains still and silent.  
  
"What's my name, Bruce?" Gordon barks trying to get a response.  
  
"James Gordon," Bruce replies, very quiet.  
  
"FULL NAME!" Gordon demands.  
  
"James W. Gordon."  
  
"Do you know what the W stands for?"  
  
Bruce shakes his head.  
  
"Wayne."  
  
Bruce turns his head and looks at Gordon, puzzled as to what he's trying to pull. For a long and very tense moment he just stands there, eyes fixed. He then smiles coyly at the Commissioner, ready to laugh. "We're not really related, are we?" Bruce asks.  
  
"Nah," Gordon replies, "My parents were big John Wayne fans. I just wanted your attention. Now, what's your answer?"  
  
"I didn't do it, Jim," Bruce says with round, soulful eyes. Gordon believes him, but he has to wonder about the Batman, who seems strangely absent.  
  
"Alright, alright," Gordon answers. He rises from his seat and scratches his head. "Bullock's still investigating. Maybe we'll turn up something. Until then, you're under house arrest…"  
  
…  
  
'Finally,' thinks Harley as she arrives to a poorly lit alley. A single, ragged poster is standing up on one wall and it takes her a moment before she recognizes the familiar image of a grinning Cheshire cat promoting cat food. Walking up to the poster she could feel a breeze pierce through the asylum issued clothing. 'No wonder they make us where these ugly uniforms at the nuthouse,' she thinks, 'you'd just die of embarrassment walking the streets in such flimsy stuff. And those catcalls!' "Yeesh!" she says, contorting her body and face in disgust and sticking out her tongue. 'Well, I made it,' she thinks as she presses the nose of the poster's grinning feline. Gears turn and the poster bends inwards, revealing a passage into a hidden Joker stronghold. 'Home, sweet home,' thinks Harley as she waltzes in before the poster closes the entrance.  
  
Harley begins singing to herself as she tosses aside items in one corner of the room. Guns, knives, smoke bombs, acid, Joker venom, joke book, and the item she was looking for, a red and black bundle. Harley quickly unwraps the bundle and unfolds the garment inside. Mr. J always liked to hide her costumes, so much so that you would almost think he didn't want her to find them.  
  
Removing the asylum issued pants and shirt she quickly slips into the tight one piece, half red and half black, diamond decorated garment, complete with a Jester's cap. 'Well, well, that's much better,' she thinks looking at a mirror, 'but we're not quite ready for the big time yet, are we?' Removing a small tube of white make-up (don't ask where she kept it hidden on such an 'ahem' revealing costume) Harley proceeds to apply it on her face in ample doses, turning it powder white. With the addition of black lipstick and matching gloves the Harlequin was complete and ready to paint the town!  
  
"Hang on baby, momma's coming!"  
  
…  
  
Dr. Marcus has had a very rough day. First he had to go through yet another session of deprogramming to remove the Joker's hypnotic suggestions. Next he finds out that the asylum wasn't paying him for his leave of absence when he was near comatose under the Joker's spell. And finally, one of his charges, Harleen Quinzel, has escaped from the asylum and is nowhere to be found. No one is sure how it happened, and no one is sure what to do about it other than to alert the authorities. At least now he's home and he can forget his troubles for the night and get some rest.  
  
Fumbling for his apartment keys he finally manages to slide one into the keyhole and opens the door. He can't help noticing a cool draft as he enters and wonders if he left a window open.  
  
He flips the light switch after shutting the door behind him and stops in his tracks when he sees a black garbed figure before him, surrounded by a billowing cape.  
  
"You!" Dr. Marcus yelps as three silenced shots are fired from a small handgun in the dark clad figure's gloved hand. All three bullets strike their target and Dr. Marcus' rotund figure lands with a thud, staining his plush carpeting with blood. The dark figure then moves to the satchel which contained Dr. Marcus' files. Removing several papers he reads on and smiles. Moving to the shattered open window the figure jumps out and onto the ground three stories below…  
  
TO BE CONTINUED…  
  
FYI: Harley escaped from Arkham in Chapter 6, with some assistance. Dr. Marcus met up with the Joker in Chapter 1. Batman and Gordon are discussing events from Chapters 4 and 5, with Gordon finding Alfred's gun in Chapter 6. 


	8. Digging

Chapter 8: Digging  
  
A faint whisper is heard…"Night has fallen, and the clock tolls midnight. All is quiet as a lone figure stealthily makes its way through the many twists and turns that are shadow swept Gotham. Slowly, in a nimble cat- like manner our hero sneaks up to the lone guard, and BAM!"  
  
A sickening thud follows as the flat end of a shovel introduces itself on the about faced police officer's head. He falls to the ground, face first.  
  
"Oh, that's gotta hurt!" the Harlequin says in typical comedic fashion. "Hello? What's the matter, don't you like film noir? Hello? Is anyone in there?" she asks the unconscious cop while knocking her fist on his forehead. He doesn't move. "Ah, you'll be fine by mornin'."  
  
The Harlequin steps across the police barricade and into the midst of the rubble that once was Joker's warehouse. She breathes in deeply the smell of explosives and Joker venom that she's grown so accustomed to. "Heavenly," she whispers as she makes her way up the pile. "Mr. J, Mr. J," she shakes her head, "always with the poison."  
  
"Don't worry Mr. J, your ever loving and reliable girl Friday is here!" Harley calls into the pile while trying to keep quiet enough so no one else would hear. Lifting up the shovel she notices a large indentation where the metal scoop struck the officer's skull. Shrugging her shoulders she tosses it aside and removes another collapsible shovel from her costume (again, don't ask where she hid it). "I tried the tunnel, puddin', but it was collapsed and wedged in tight," Harley continues as she starts to dig. "This was a good one Mr. J. I mean, you always did like to bring the house down."  
  
As Harley continues to dig her patience begins to wear thin, "There's no way I'm letting you off the hook! I gave you 5 years of my life and I'm not giving up when some stupid rocks are in the way!" She calms herself and continues her dig, "Sigh, this reminds me of the time we went and dug up some corpses to dump on police headquarters. That was a beautiful night. Full moon, stars, your smiling face as you tossed Mr. Henderson's head about and kicked dirt in my eyes. Come to think of it, I did most of the digging then too. No, wait, actually I did all of the digging. And I'm still doing the digging!" Harley pauses for a moment and frowns angrily. She then shakes her head and continues digging with her teeth clenched in anger, "Nuts! I'm going to give you such a pounding when I get you out of there!"  
  
…  
  
Bullock hates this. It's one thing to be called in to investigate a murder with the body still fresh and its eyes still staring at you, but to have to come in at 3 in the morning really irks him. 'Why'd they call me in anyway? These are posh apartments, where the well-to-do live who don't have to bother with crime, unless it's corporate. Damn waste of time, simple break and enter for sure.'  
  
Bullock enters the crime scene and sees a well dressed body lying face first in the hallway of a luxurious apartment. 'Well,' thinks the detective, 'at least I won't have to worry about the staring part.' Next to the body are some scattered papers lying on top of a pool of blood. 'The coroner still ain't here,' thinks Bullock, 'but it's obvious this guy's a shooting victim.' He bends down and picks up a few of the sheets of paper in his gloved hands and hears a voice call him as he begins to read.  
  
"Bullock!" It was Detective Allen, one of the regulars in homicide. 'An okay guy,' thinks Harvey, 'if a little stuffy.'  
  
"Joe," Bullock answers, "why the hell did you call me in on this?"  
  
"Gee Harv, no how do you do? You're breaking my heart. Seems the body had a caller at about 2:30, says her name is Candi and works the corner. Anyway, seems the body asked her to stop by at the usual time, seems he's a regular. She comes a knockin' and finding the door unlocked she enters and finds him like this. She screams, the neighbours wake up and here we are."  
  
Allen always had a way of hearing a question and spewing a bunch of answers that didn't really answer anything. "So WHY am I here?" Bullock asks with a little more rancour in his voice.  
  
"Easy big fella'! I'm getting to that. When we arrived I initially took it as your usual break and enter gone awry, with the body coming in and scaring the thief, bang, bang, bang, he's dead, the thief panics and beats a hasty retreat. Seems there's a broken window at the other end of the apartment…" Bullock looks up from the papers he's reading and makes a note of it. "We're on the fifth floor Harv, seems the perp must've been a decent climber. He/she certainly had the right footwear, we got a shoe print in the blood pool…" Harvey again peers over the papers he's reading and notes the boot print. It was familiar.  
  
"Are you beginning to see why I called you in?" Allen asks.  
  
"Yeah, I'm beginning to see the light," Bullock replies tersely. "Three shots would suggest the perp really wanted this guy dead, namely this was a hit, not accidental. Next, these papers were moved AFTER the guy was killed since they're smeared in blood while those in the satchel are bone dry. Finally, this guy was a doctor at Arkham, which can link it to my vigilante killer who may be broadening his horizon to the crazies."  
  
"Bingo."  
  
"Tell me Allen, why would a psycho vigilante killer go after a shrink?"  
  
"I don't know. Disgruntled former patient? Whatever it is, it's no longer my problem. I'm heading home."  
  
Bullock gives a faint snarl and continues to read the papers in his hands until he comes upon an interesting one, "Before you go Joe, what time did we get the APB on Quinn?"  
  
"About midnight. Seems no one at Arkham noticed she was missing until lights out. Idiots. Why?"  
  
"This guy was Dr. Marcus, the guy Joker had hypnotized in his breakout 3 weeks back, and also Harley Quinn's psychiatrist!"  
  
"You mean Quinn's the vigilante killer?"  
  
Bullock sneers, "You're real dense sometimes, ain't ya? I mean that Quinn may be the killer's next target. Knowing Quinn like I do she'll at least want to see her boyfriend once before moving on. Is there a sting on at the rubble pile?"  
  
"What? It's the middle of the night. You think anyone on the force is up to speed on anything?"  
  
"Damn."  
  
…  
  
Harley's been digging for almost an hour under the cover of darkness. Her muscles are beginning to ache, the sweat is pouring down like rain and her heart is pounding like a jackhammer. For the first time she begins to have doubts about digging up her beau, 'He probably would smell real ripe by now, and his complexion might be a lot paler than normal. Maybe Red's right. Maybe it's better if I just pay my respects and go back to Arkham and be a good little girl. My Red's certainly been much mellower since her complexion changed. Then again…'  
  
She begins to bite her fingernails, wondering what to do, 'What if he's down there, still alive? What if I just walk away and he dies with my name on those loving ruby lips of his? I could be his maid in shining armour, and he'll be my little knight, and we'll live happily ever after…'  
  
'But he can't be alive, can he? It's been too long, hasn't it? Damn, why didn't I pay attention in physiology class? Oh yeah,' she smiles lovingly as the thought crosses her mind, 'it was HIM.'  
  
"Aw, to heck with it," and she continues digging.  
  
Then it happens. She feels her strength wane as a breeze passes through her chest. Dropping the shovel she becomes light headed and falls to her knees. From there she continues to plummet face first into the hole of her own making. Head spinning, she can feel the eternal night embrace her as her life's blood spills out onto the earth below.  
  
On a nearby rooftop a smoking rifle can be seen, its metallic hide eerily glistening under the pale moonlight, the silencer keeping it quiet as the weapon did its deadly task. Lowering the rifle the figure reveals a black covered face with two small slits revealing a pair of haunting eyes.  
  
"I guess, Ms Quinzel, that you weren't immune to lead poisoning," the shooter murmurs in a low growl as he turns, his black cape flowing with the wind.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED… 


	9. Set-Up

Chapter 9: Set-up  
  
As dawn's dim light comes across Gotham's jagged skyline, its humble and for the most part hardworking citizens are stumbling out of their beds and preparing for another routine workday. They can afford such expectations these days, thanks to their now diligent and efficient police force. Once helmed by corruption and vice, this squadron of dedicated men and women has now become a beacon to the rest of the nation. This change did not come easy, and can be attributed to the efforts of one man in particular, the same man who is currently sitting in his office and staring out a window at the now stirring populace. His name is James W. Gordon, the Commissioner, a man who knows his responsibilities and routinely makes decisions that would break any normal human being.  
  
The weight of his most recent burden has etched itself in his face. His eyes are blood red and baggy, his general appearance haggard and weary. Something nagged at his mind throughout the evening, ever since he drove away from Wayne Manor, and he knew then, deep in his bones, that the dawn would prove difficult to face. He'd felt this before.  
  
'How many of them just don't care,' he wonders, peering through the Venetian blinds, 'that someone's stalking criminals with an arsenal the army would be envious of? Worse yet, how many think it's a good thing?' His conscience won't let him fall in with the latter. 'It's slaughter, not justice. Bruce, you think the same way, don't you?' He shakes his head at having returned to the same restless thought. Adjusting the sling supporting his mangled right arm, a souvenir of gladiatorial combat forced upon him and Batman for the Joker's amusement, he sits and sighs heavily.  
  
'Last night, did I do the right thing? He's my friend, and the amount of good he's done for the city demands some respect,' he sighs. 'He's changed. I don't know what caused it, Barbara, the bridge, Joker, whatever it was I can't help wondering that maybe I should have stopped him then and there, before..."  
  
Gordon isn't allowed the chance finish his thought for at that moment Det. Bullock bursts into the office, sending chairs flying across the floor as he slams a file onto the Commissioner's desk. "In case you didn't know, Batman struck again last night. That's two more to add to the list, Commish. Quinn at the ruins and Dr. Thaddeus Marcus in his own God-damned-home!"  
  
"It's not Batman!" Gordon yells back. "You just screwed yourself up, Harvey! Quinn's a logical choice, but why the hell would he kill a psychologist? It makes no sense!"  
  
"Marcus was the shrink in charge when Joker busted out of Arkham. He was also the shrink in charge of Quinn. See the connection?"  
  
The Commissioner nods, his mood becoming much more sullen as he whispers, "He's not a killer."  
  
"Yeah?" Harvey starts back, "Well I think he is." Harvey removes two photos from the file and shoves them in front of the Commissioner, "And if the shoe fits..." The Commissioner pushes his glasses back into position and focuses his eyes upon the two photos before him. To his left is an image of a boot's impression taken from the ruins three weeks ago, the very night Joker struck. To the right is a bloody boot print taken from Dr. Marcus' apartment, dated last night. Both are very detailed imprints of a unique combat style boot that is unlikely to have come from the military. It's the kind of boot Batman would use. There's really only one conclusion.  
  
I've got 5 more photos in there that match if you're still not convinced Commish, each one taken by yours truly after a bat incident over the past 6 months BEFORE the bridge."  
  
"Get out," Gordon snaps, eyes blazing. With Bullock gone he falls back in his chair. Bullock's hatred of Batman makes him the exact anti-thesis to the Commissioner, allowing Bullock to see things that Gordon may subconsciously ignore. That's why Bullock's been kept on the case all this time, he's the only man Gordon trusts when it comes to Batman. The fact his left arm is shaking at Bullock's report tells him what he fears. It's times like this he wishes he could smoke in the office.   
  
'It's not good,' he thinks, desperately trying to quell the tingle in his left arm, 'not good at all. I've got to be sure; I've got to see him. Not now, at night. I'm going to learn the truth, Bruce, no more of this questioning, no more cat-and-mouse. I'm going to see for myself, even if it kills me!' He takes a deep breath and the shakes subside. He's just given himself the rest of the day to try and find a reason for all this madness. Slightly calmer now, Commissioner Gordon stares down at the photos, and the bloodied prints in particular.  
  
'Marcus.'  
  
He calls for Det. Bullock. The unkempt detective saunters into the Commissioner's office with a grin, "So, Commish, you finally agree with my line of thinking?"   
  
...  
  
To most people such a room would only exist in books and movies. To the solitary individual standing in its center, it is nothing more than a distraction from the true task at hand. There's a million dollars beyond the mahogany doors entrapping him, and he couldn't care less. His slicked back black hair, gray suit and tie conceal his true nature. The dapper gentleman sits calmly in a nearby leather hewn chair and engages his surroundings. Nothing less than solid cherry, oak and mahogany adorns every corner, with exquisite art covering each conceivable bare spot, expertly placed so as to draw your attention from one to the next, creating a visual tour de force. Of course, only he can see the true message in the paintings. "Hello, good sir," a lanky, bald man enters, greeting his gray dressed guest. The impeccably dressed host sits behind his desk and smiles, "Now what can I do for you, officer...?"  
  
"Detective, actually," the guest grins, "MacMurtney." He flashes a badge and photo I.D. The host turns slightly pale.  
  
"We're only too pleased to help Gotham's finest, here at the First National. What do you require, detective?"  
  
MacMurtney clears his throat briefly before continuing, "I'd like to look at the accounts of one of your clients. A Dr. Thaddeus Marcus. He was murdered last night and we're checking for any financial motives."  
  
"Of course," the bank manager replies, "But I will need to see a warrant. We can't simply give away account information to anyone who asks for it."  
  
"There's no time," MacMurtney answers in a slightly raised voice, "The killer could strike again at any moment. We need that information as soon as possible."  
  
"But surely we...' the manager begins to protest. A dark gleam in MacMurtney's eyes tells him to do otherwise and the manager nervously smiles, "Of course, I see." He presses the intercom and requests the appropriate paperwork.  
  
The Gotham First National Bank is the premier financial institution of a great metropolis, and prides itself on efficiency and courtesy. It's no wonder that MacMurtney is perusing Dr. Marcus' accounts scant moments after the request is made; with the manager looking on nervously as each page is turned. MacMurtney pauses at one page in particular, and smiles a toothy grin at the figures before him. His curiosity sated the detective flips the papers onto the manager's desk, rises from his seat and shows himself out without so much as a peep from his host. Relieved that the ordeal has ended the bank manager returns to his work at hand, with Marcus' file resting comfortably nearby.  
  
After a few minutes his office door opens once more, and a rotund, poorly dressed and unshaven man enters wearing a soiled trenchcoat and fedora. He smiles politely after slamming the door behind him, "Hey there, you the guy in charge?"  
  
"Yes," the manager answers meekly, fearing a robbery. The stranger reaches into a pocket and removes a badge, holding it up for the manager to see, "Detective Bullock, GCPD. We had a murder last night and the Commissioner wants us to check on the victim's financial records for a motive."  
  
The manager can't believe his ears, "Dr. Thaddeus Marcus?"  
  
"Yeah," Bullock looks back, "Saw it on the news, huh? So..."  
  
The manager hands over the Marcus file, "No. Not the news. You're the second policeman to come in here and ask for that file."  
  
"What?"  
  
"A detective MacMurtney was here just a few minutes ago and..."  
  
Now its Bullock's turn to look dumbfounded, "There's no detective MacMurtney on the force!"  
  
...  
  
Ivy is in a corner of her cell, shaking like a leaf, unable to comprehend what she just heard on the news in the media room of the asylum. 'The news,' she thinks rapidly, 'They always let us watch the news. Why didn't they tell us? Why? Were they afraid I'd crush them in a fit of rage? She's my BEST friend! She's the ONLY friend I've ever had, and no one told me! She made me laugh, she was so funny. All the others...'  
  
'Why her? I don't care about Joker. Why her too? All the others are so selfish. I can hear them begging and pleading and hoping that the Batman won't kill them too. 'I'll be good Batman!' 'I'll take my medicine Batman!' 'Don't hurt me Batman!' None of you care about Harley. All of you are worse. Damn it, why her? She wasn't a killer. Not like us.'  
  
Ivy's breathing is coming in short gasps now as her heart pumps in overtime. She could feel the poison, once purged from her system, begin to seep forth and fill her veins. She could see her complexion change, from normal flesh to something much greener and infinitely meaner. With the poison comes more hate, clouding her mind and judgment, silencing the world around her. She's always known that strong emotion, love and hate, would cause the quelling of her ability to hear the thoughts of others. Right now she doesn't care, welcoming the change, the accompanying silence, and hate. She screams. "I hate you Batman!"  
  
'You're evil, like a weed choking the life out of a delicate flower. I'll find you, Batman. Tonight, I'll avenge Harley! Tonight...when you think yourself indestructible, I'll show you just how pathetic you really are...'  
  
TO BE CONTINUED... 


	10. The Bridge

Under the watchful eyes of his parents' portrait Bruce Wayne sits, legs crossed, arms loosely to his side and eyes closed, the standard pose for meditation. One needs look no further than his anguish laden face to realize that Bruce Wayne is far removed from inner peace. Instead he grits his teeth and breathes in long, hard gasps as his own thoughts betray him. There is only one creed he lives by now, that of vengeance for the events that continue to haunt his nights. His parents were at the forefront of this crusade, the single defining event of his life, but now there is another. Burned fresh, and like a raw scar it festers in his mind. An event even Gotham itself cannot comprehend for its depth in depravity and sheer insane scope. An event he relives each time he tries to rest, to re-energize himself for the oncoming storm. Nothing less, nothing more, it is...  
  
The Bridge  
  
It's only ten more minutes until class ends for the day in East Gotham Middle School. Each student is no longer concentrating on the lessons being taught but on the world outside and the freedom within their grasp. Tick, tock, tick, tock.  
  
On the first floor, just inside the main entrance, Principal Addeis is checking his watch and frowning. 'Where are they?' As if in answer to his question three odd men step into the school's first floor with one wheeling a large gas cylinder. 'Propane no doubt,' thinks Addeis. The principal appears a little confused as he greets the workers, "Thanks for coming so quickly. Uhm, where's Gus? He's our usual plumber and said he'd be here. I need his signature otherwise the board won't reimburse us."  
  
Plumber one, a short bald man who is rounder than most soccer balls chirps up, "Have no fear!"  
  
Plumber two, an exact double of plumber one, continues, "He is here!"  
  
Plumber one: "In the van!"  
  
Plumber two: "Go see him man!"  
  
"Please wait for me here," the principal answers. It's been a long day and the sooner he gets this business over with the better. He steps outside in the balmy winter air and walks to the parked van. No one is inside the driver's seat and the rear doors are open so the principal makes his way to the back of the van. He looks inside and sees the van is empty. "What the?" The principal feels powerful arms shove him inside and the doors slam shut behind him. He screams, but no one answers. 'The third plumber must have done this, the lumbering giant with a fine scar across his throat. He must have followed me outside without my noticing,' the principal wonders. He tries again, "Help!" A small panel slides open from the front of the van and a voice calls into the principal's cell with a malicious calm, "Do be quiet. No one can hear you, except me, and I'd prefer some peace and quiet. It's hard enough trying to make out what these voices in my head are saying without you're whimpering."  
  
The van starts up. "Who are you?" the principal asks. "Me? I'm the maddest of them all! I'm Lewis Carroll!" The panel closes and the principal is immersed in darkness. He could feel the van move while a grotesque laugh faintly passes through the wall.  
  
...  
  
Inside the school the three bizarre men have made it outside room 319 and pause. The large, muscular one removes a mask from his pocket, places it over his face and proudly displays his two large tusks. The two small gentlemen remove handguns from their pockets and smirk.  
  
"Shall we, Mr. Deefrum?"  
  
"After you Mr. Dumfree."  
  
...  
  
The van halts and its rear doors fly open. The sudden influx of light temporarily blinds Addeis. Disoriented, he is dragged out and sees boxes stacked upon one another as far as the eye can see. "Welcome dear principal, welcome!"  
  
Addeis can now see his captor. A man dressed in purple from head to toe. Chalk white skin, green hair and ruby red lips. As seen on TV, the man who has killed more people than anyone suspects, the Joker! Addeis gasps, "Oh God."  
"Close, but no cigar," Joker smirks. His left arm holds a small gun pointed directly to Addeis' head and the other cups around his mouth as he yells, "Hatter!"  
  
"Ah! My dear Cheshire cat! You have done well! Your addition to my Wonderland was indeed a master stroke!" Into the light steps a short man in a green coat, collars upturned, wearing a large green top hat with a playing card numbered 10/6 in the hatband. Beside him is another man, tall and lanky like the principal, wearing a black double-breasted suit. His head is bald and appears to shimmer like glass under the light, but is flesh colored nonetheless. It's like a thin layer of plastic was covering him.  
  
"Dear Hatter," Joker replies sincerely, "I couldn't do it on my own. The Walrus performed perfectly. My, how well you have him trained! How do you do it?"  
  
"He obeys for the same reason we are all drawn together, dear friend, our hatred for the interfering Batman," Hatter answers, arms outstretched warmly. "I see," Joker replies quietly, eyes averting for a moment. In the next instant he wheels the gun and fires a single shot through the Mad Hatter's skull, killing him instantly! The suited man doesn't even flinch, "Idiot! We needed him!"  
  
Joker only laughs. "See Mr. Lincoln over there, teach? He thinks that the Joker actually needs someone! What for? He told me enough. Mr. Lincoln on the other hand, definitely needs my help. I procured a device from the police he desperately requires to gain some sense of normalcy in his life. Mr. Lincoln, you see, is no honest Abe. Seems he's lost all he's loved and thinks the best way to regain his humanity is by covering himself in plastic. Yeah, that makes sense," Joker pauses and twirls a finger about the side of his skull and rolls his eyes, "like me having a room full of people and not killing them. Still, I'm a decent enough guy to help out my fellow man...for a price."  
Roy Lincoln only stares at Joker, taking his abuse because he knows he has to. He needs that machine in working order, and only the Joker knows where it is. 'It's my only hope,' he thinks. 'I've lost everything because of this curse. My father; my wife; my friends; everyone. And now I've made a deal with the devil to get my life back, all because of one stupid mistake! Whatever it takes.'  
  
"My kids?" the principal stammers. Joker crouches down and meets him face to face. He frowns as best he can, "You should be more worried about yourself at the moment." Another gunshot and Addeis falls on his back, his chest soaked with blood. "You have what you need," Joker addresses as he grabs Addeis by the hair and lifts his head for Roy to see, "now get to work! And remember, I'll be watching..."  
  
...  
  
It may be winter outside, but inside Dan Stojod's heart it feels like spring. The new school year has been going well for the 12 year old. His grades are up, his parents are fighting less, and he's noticed just how lovely Jenny is. He now spends the last few minutes of each day in Mrs. Thagose's class staring at her lovely, near white blonde hair and deep blue eyes. 'She's perfect.'  
  
Unfortunately he hasn't had the courage to ask her out yet. Heck, he hasn't even asked to walk her home, and they live on the same block! 'Maybe,' he thinks, 'maybe tonight is the night.' Suddenly three men crash through the classroom door; two with guns and one who looks like no gun on earth could hurt him. Mrs. Thagose screams.  
  
...  
  
Roy Lincoln has finally made it to the centre of Gotham Bay Bridge. A vital lifeline linking the centre of the city to the rest of the world, it has stood here for almost half a century. 'A marvel of engineering in its day,' figures Roy as he removes the gun from his pocket. Cars whiz by in either direction as he raises the gun to his disguised face and pulls the hammer back. A brave soul notices the well-dressed man standing in the middle of the busy thoroughfare and stops his car, with every other driver behind him forced to follow suit. The Samaritan is met with screaming profanities as he opens his car door. He ignores his fellow motorists and turns to Roy. "Friend, why would you want to throw your life away?" the Samaritan asks.  
  
"My name is Addeis. I am the principal of East Gotham Middle School and I have to do this, otherwise the Joker will kill a classroom full of kids!"  
  
...  
  
Batman has just begun his evening patrol. Winter means the sun sets earlier, and it also means that Gotham's monsters have much more time to crawl out of the abyss to claim her good and decent souls. Tonight is no different. He swings from one building to the next, scanning the city below for trouble when the bulletin reaches his cowl radio. Batman knows his enemies well, and of those at large no one would be so cruel. No one, that is, except the Joker. 'Gordon will be at the school,' thinks Batman, 'as he should be. He could probably use some help.'  
  
"Nighwing," he calls in his radio.  
  
"I heard," Nightwing answers into the tiny radio lining his mask.  
  
"I need you at the school. Try to act as support to the police for as long as possible, otherwise put an end to it."  
  
"Alright," Nightwing responds, "we'll be there in a few minutes."  
  
"We?" Batman asks. Nightwing turns and looks at the lovely figure outlined in the moonlight. Her cowl has pointed ears like Batman's and a similar cape, but that's where the similarities end. 'Thank goodness,' thinks Nightwing.  
  
"Yeah, Batgirl's with me," Nightwing answers his mentor and adopted father. Batman understands that Batgirl and Nightwing are close. They rarely leave each other's side these days, not since Barbara... That doesn't mean he likes it, or that he understands how they could afford to keep on this dangerous path. He can't say anything though; he respects both of them too much.  
  
"Are you headed for the bridge?" Nightwing asks.  
  
"No. Joker's out there controlling everything. I'm going to find him."  
  
"Good luck," Nightwing ends his transmission. He grits his teeth and begins his flight across Gotham's rooftops towards the school, with Batgirl in close pursuit. As he runs his thoughts drift. He wishes he were going after the Joker. He wishes he was the one who was going to wrap his hands around the clown's neck and...  
  
"You did not tell him," Cassandra Cain, Batgirl, remarks slyly.  
  
"Now's not the time Bar...Cass," Nightwing responds as he stops running.  
  
"What is it?" she asks, grabbing his arm. He pulls her close and gives her a long, deep kiss on the lips. "What?" she asks after regaining her composure.  
  
"You know," Dick starts slowly, "I never got to tell her...before she..."  
  
"I know." The young lovers continue their run.  
  
...  
  
"Robin?"  
  
"Yes sir," Batman's cowl radio crackles in response.  
  
"I need you at the bridge. I want a voice check on the principal."  
  
"Right," Robin replies eagerly, "you think he's a fake?"  
  
"With Joker involved, you suspect everyone and everything. Be careful, son."  
  
"I will, Robin out." Robin removes his grappling gun and begins swinging across Gotham towards the Bay Bridge. The city seems so vibrant, so alive down below. A million sensations penetrate the young crime fighter's senses as he travels.  
  
"Hey Boy Blunder," a strong female voice coos from behind. He turns and sees the Huntress in her purple and black costume swinging closely behind him, her black cape billowing behind her. She keeps popping up on cases recently, more so than before, much to Batman's dismay. "Mind if I tag along," she asks, winking slyly at the boy.  
  
'She must be Dick's age,' thinks Robin, 'so why does she keep tagging up with me?' Maybe it's because he knows she only wants to help, and that her heart's in the right place. And maybe it's because he knows what it's like to make mistakes under Batman's watch. "I don't mind," Robin answers as they head to the bridge together.  
  
...  
  
"Why look Mr. Dumfree," Tweedledee addresses his partner. The entire classroom is lined up against the wall, their desks used as a barricade to block entrance from the hallway. The window curtains are drawn to prevent police snipers from catching sight and the phone is off the hook. Nearby stands the Walrus next to his gas cylinder. All 20 students are sitting on the ground, scared. Tweedledee grabs one of them from the group and points at her, "Hair so nice!"  
  
Deefrum: "Without a hint of lice!"  
  
Dumfree: "A charming face!"  
  
Deefrum: "Like a warm embrace!"  
  
Dumfree: "And eyes so blue!"  
  
Deefrum: "My goodness! What a hue!"  
  
Dumfree: "She could only be?"  
  
Deefrum: "Ah yes, now I see!"  
  
Together: "Alice!"  
  
"But my name's not Alice, it's Jenny," the young girl answers, quivering.  
  
Dumfree: "That cannot be."  
  
Deefrum: "It's Alice we see!"  
  
Dumfree: "You stayed while we did tell..."  
  
Deefrum: "...a story so wonderfully well!"  
  
Dumfree: "And after you did run away..."  
  
Deefrum: "...leaving us alone to play..."  
  
Dumfree: "...a game of what we would do..."  
  
Deefrum: "...if ever we met anew."  
  
The two diminutive and demented men grab Jenny by the arms and legs and begin to swing her back and forth, each swing bringing her perilously closer to the one open window in the classroom. "Stop it!" Dan yells as he stands brandishing clenched fists. The Walrus stirs slightly and Dan resumes his seat.  
  
Dumfree: "Fear not our little friend,"  
  
Deefrum: "We do not wish to see her end."  
  
Dumfree: "For as you shall soon see..."  
  
Deefrum: "...this is actually an act of mercy!" The two men then release the frightened girl and she flies out the window, her scream piercing the night air. The crowd of police gasp in unison at the sight as a black and blue figure swings across the front of the school on a silken cord. Timing it perfectly Nightwing catches the hysterical girl in midair and they land safely on the ground in front of a police cruiser.  
  
"Take care of her," he requests as a nearby officer takes the girl from Nightwing's arms. His teeth clenched, Nightwing turns and fires his grapple at the school and rises up towards the open window. Just behind him is Batgirl, swinging down on her own silken cord. Viewing this from the window Tweedledum yells "Damn and blas..." only to feel the sting of Batgirl's batarang.  
  
Deefrum: "Walrus! The gas!" Tweedledee feels Nightwing's boot cut across his face, and is followed by a devastating uppercut sending him to sleep. The Walrus rips off the cylinder's seal and a green gas fills the room. Nightwing and Batgirl try to attack the Walrus simultaneously with batarangs, only find his chiseled physique is harder than stone as the weapons bounce off harmlessly. The classroom is small, with little room to manoeuvre in. Both Nightwing and Batgirl want to isolate the students as much as possible and they realize that this battle will involve close quarters combat, the kind that's always messy. As one they strike at the Walrus with kicks and punches that would almost cripple any normal man. He feels none of their blows and continues to bar their access to the deadly cylinder. Nightwing tries a desperate gamble as the sound of children gagging and coughing and laughing fills his mind, "Batman told me about you, Walrus. Batman..." The name of his hated enemy enrages the Walrus and he lunges at Nightwing, catching the young daredevil off guard. They smash up against the wall and the Walrus delivers devastating blow after blow. 'Hurry Batgirl,' Nightwing prays, 'hurry.'  
  
Batgirl dons her rebreather and gingerly steps towards the gas cylinder. The valve is broken and the gas is flowing out with such force she can't reseal it. The cylinder has to be gotten rid of! At this point the Walrus realizes the female of the pair looks a lot like Batman and he turns, tossing Nightwing at her like a rag doll. She instinctively dodges, only to see her lover crash into the wall. As she turns the Walrus delivers several devastating punches that send her reeling. He pounces on her and continues the assault.  
  
Nightwing stirs and shakes his head. He's been inhaling the gas and his mind feels muddled and cloudy. 'It's hard to breathe,' he thinks. The children are frenzied now, the gas affecting their minds as well. Nightwing hears their cries and manages to lift the heavy cylinder with his aching muscles and nearly broken body. He makes his way to the window, only to have his knees buckle slightly as he nears the edge.  
  
Dan is gagging. He can't handle the thoughts crowding his brain, telling him of the many funny things he's done, could do, can be, won't be...and he decides it would be funny if he shoved someone out the window, just like Jenny. Grinning from ear to ear he jumps up and gives Nightwing a strong shove from behind, and he, Nightwing and the gas cylinder hurtle to the earth below.  
  
Batgirl is still being beaten upon, her left eye swollen and sore, her body aching. The Walrus is relentless, but so is she. She kicks him in the one spot men everywhere yield to, only to find it has no effect. She ducks a punch and slips behind the Walrus. Grabbing a cord she wraps it around his throat and pulls it tight. The Walrus remembers this. He remembers the lack of air, the helplessness, and how he would do anything to get away. He runs backwards, taking both Batgirl and himself through another window. Amidst the falling glass Batgirl manages to twist midair and the Walrus takes the brunt of the impact. He feels nothing and swats Batgirl away with his broken arm. Rising quickly he is met with Gotham's police department. Commissioner Gordon, teeth gritted in anger, eyes blazing, takes his gun and fires. Soon every officer is following suit and the Walrus falls in a cold numbness, never to rise again. Gordon runs towards the valiant Batgirl and she soon feels his gentle arms grab her shoulders as he helps her up. Her head is throbbing and her body is on fire, but she hasn't forgotten about Nightwing.  
  
Already two EMTs are working on him. He also turned in midair, but in the opposite direction to save Dan, taking the force of the fall. The cylinder is nearby as well, empty and impotent now; with the children above crying as the gas finally disperses. With Gordon's arm around her shoulder Batgirl hobbles towards her fallen lover, ready to cry. Gordon just looks at the mess that was Nightwing and remembers his daughter's still face on that horrible day.  
  
"He fell on the canister," one of the EMTs mumbles, "Smacked his head."  
  
...  
  
"Officer?"  
  
Police Lieutenant Doby turns and sees two brightly clad figures standing next to him. He recognizes the young boy in red and green immediately, but the identity of the woman in purple and black is unknown to him. "Robin, me lad! Who's the lady? Your girlfriend?" Huntress grits her teeth and clenches her left hand into a powerful fist, her right hand grips her crossbow even tighter. Realizing his mistake Doby changes the subject, "What brings you here? Batman around?"  
  
Roy Lincoln is still standing in the middle of the Bay Bridge, gun drawn, his mouth wrapped around the muzzle. 'Good,' he thinks, 'the police have cleared the bridge. The disguise fooled them. Wait, what's the kid doing here? Joker didn't say anything about kids. He wouldn't hurt children, would he? He just wanted a distraction to trap the Batman, didn't he?'  
  
Robin removes a tiny recorder from his utility belt and waits. Doby yells into his megaphone, "Alright Addeis, why don't you think about this one more time. You're a respected man in the community, and you're in charge of young children. The Joker's nowhere near here, so why not just drop the gun?"  
  
Roy removes his lips from the gun and answers with the same response he's used the past two hours, "Joker will kill my kids. He knows! I can't!"  
  
"Very good," whispers a familiar voice into Roy's earpiece. The tiny little receiver continues to speak, "Robin's here, and the vixen. Excellent. Just wait there until Batman arrives."  
  
Robin attaches the recorder to his belt radio and presses a button. A few miles away the Batmobile's computer receives the audio byte and replays it. Nearby is the Batman with Mr. Alloy, the grade 4 teacher at East Gotham Middle School. "No," responds Mr. Alloy to the recorded sounds, "that's not his voice."  
  
"Thanks," Batman mutters as he leaps into the Batmobile and turns towards the Bay Bridge. "Robin. You heard what was said. Just keep pretending you don't know the truth until I arrive. Over."  
  
Something about Robin's recording is bothering Batman. 'There was some distortion in the voice, probably due to interference being generated nearby, affecting Robin's radio signal. But what? I avoid using police bandwidths for just this reason. Unless someone else is using a similar frequency, like Joker trying to stay in contact with his agent! I can track this interference to its source! Got you!' thinks the dark knight. He leaves Robin's radio signal open and follows the static.  
  
At the bridge Robin is sitting idle and Huntress can't stand it, "So this guy's a phony? And Batman wants us to play along until he gets here?"  
  
Robin nods his head, "Huntress, I know this seems unfair. We could just take this guy and help out at the school, but Batman knows better. He sees the big picture."  
  
"Right," Huntress says sarcastically, "he's perfect. I'll tell you what he knows," her voice changes into boiling venom, "he knows I'm here and can't stand it! He thinks I'm not good enough, that I'll get in the way and hurt myself and his... I'll show him! I'm not an invalid!"  
  
Robin's stunned, "Huntress, what?"  
  
She leaps in the air and falls in front of the police barricade. She quickly removes her crossbow and takes aim, firing a single bolt. It's expertly aimed and passes through Roy's right hand, severing the nerve. His hand spasms and releases the gun. As it falls the Huntress smiles.  
  
"You fool! What have you done?" Roy yells, for the bolt has also severed the thin layer of film that covers his entire body, allowing air to seep in. The air then reacts with Roy Lincoln's unique body chemistry, building and charging a massive swell of energy that almost instantaneously erupts into an explosion of blinding fury! The shockwave rocks Gotham and registers on seismographs across the sea! Then, as quickly as it came, the blast subsides to reveal a moment of eerie calm. The Bay Bridge actually seems to have weathered the blow for a moment, allowing a nearby news helicopter to film the carnage of flesh melded with molten steel. Then they hear it, the snapping of steel struts and beams and the cracking of concrete as the bridge buckles and bends before finally collapsing into Gotham Harbour, taking all souls aboard to a watery grave. The TV helicopter struggles to stay in the air, its occupants badly shaken by the sight.  
  
On top of the Gotham bluffs on the mainland, Joker laughs. "That was beautiful!" he exclaims in glee as he does a little dance. "Mr. Lincoln, the Human Bomb!" The mad clown laughs once more before turning away, only to see a grim Batman blocking his path. "But how could you...?" Joker stammers in disbelief.  
  
"There..." Batman begins, punching Joker in the gut, "...WERE..." a knee to Joker's face while he's bent over, "...two..." an open palm to Joker's face shattering his nose, "...bridges!" Batman ends panting.  
  
Joker clutches his sore jaw as he tries to speak, "Why so mad? Kids like fireworks; I could hear them laugh from here!" A kick to the groin and a hard uppercut end the Joker's day. Batman loads the unconscious clown into the Batmobile's trunk and heads straight for the empty space that the Bay Bridge once occupied.  
  
"DAMN HIM!" he screams, smashing his fist into the window out of frustration. He presses down on the accelerator and flies at full speed into the water, its lapping waves claiming his soul as well...  
  
...  
  
Bruce's eyes open with a start and he feels beads of cool sweat pour down his face. He's returned to the manor's den, the portrait still staring down at him. It's always the same with his dreams now. Be it his parents' murder, the bridge, or his latest endeavor in madness, the endings are now fictional, emotional, and so very final. He's not dead, but it's what he wants, isn't it?  
"Maybe tonight," he whispers, "with the reckoning."  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...  
  
FYI: And now for something completely different. So who the heck is Roy Lincoln? Well, our boy Roy originally appeared in Police Comics #1 way back in 1941, with that JLA stalwart Plastic Man. Roy's story is simple enough: one day while working in his father's lab, foreign agents came searching for a very secret and very explosive formula. Roy, determined that they don't get their hands on the precious concoction, decides the best thing to do isn't, say, tossing the explosive at the crooks, or out the window, or spilling its contents on the floor. No, not our Roy, he's too sly for that. Instead he drinks it! This man is a laboratory technician? Naturally, this being comics, he doesn't die and actually gains the ability to blow up anything he touches (the crooks were the first to go). Donning his costume (a plain bomb-blast suit, that's it, really) he fights crime as the Human Bomb! Unfortunately for Roy, when we meet up with him, his powers have become severely sensitive and only a coating of a special protective polymer, developed by his father before his untimely accident, prevents his exploding on contact with air. His unstable nature makes him a public menace, and Roy sets out as a fugitive searching for a cure à la the Incredible Hulk. As we've established, our Mr. Lincoln is no Bruce Banner in the brains department (or Woozy Winks for that matter) and finds no problem asking the Joker for help as he passes through Gotham. Yeesh.  
  
Anyone notice, "Addeis" "is deAd?" There's more. 


	11. Day's End

Chapter 11: Day's End  
  
The four horsemen of the apocalypse, brutish creatures which the human imagination cannot even begin to describe, permeate each facet of our society in ways unseen to all save a very few. With his dark hair slicked back, grey suit and tie in place to conceal his true nature, he takes a deep breath of pure city air before entering the lobby of Gotham General Hospital. Pestilence and death, two of the horsemen, comb these halls and he can feel their icy grips beyond each door he passes, beckoning to him. He ignores their enticing calls and slowly saunters to the registration desk. He smiles politely at the nurse who looks back wearily. "May I help you?" she asks, near comatose. It's been a long shift. He flashes a badge, "Detective MacMurtney, GCPD."  
  
"So?" The nurse is tired and in no mood for an interruption that may lengthen her work day, like this one. Then she notices the frightful gleam in his eyes and he grins with satisfaction as he realizes she understands. "I'd like to know what patients a Dr. Thaddeus Marcus was involved with during his time here at Gotham General. He was murdered last night and we're searching for motives."  
  
"Of course," the nurse nervously smiles back. She types a few words into her terminal and prints the result. She then hands it to the detective who leafs through it as she agitatedly looks on. He grins once more and her terror filled heart nearly stops.  
  
A lumbering shadow then presents itself beside the detective. It is an unkempt, overweight, trench coat and fedora wearing man who rests against the reception desk. He flashes a badge and manages a half-hearted smile at the nurse on duty, "Hi there, toots. Detective Harvey Bullock, GCPD. We want some info on a Dr. Thaddeus Marcus who used to work here and..."  
  
The nurse gives Bullock a bizarre glance and turns her eyes towards MacMurtney, whose only response is yet another grin. He looks Bullock in the eyes. "I believe this is what you need, detective," MacMurtney coolly remarks as he slides the computer printout over. Bullock sneers back as he eases his right arm to his holster, "Detective MacMurtney, I presume?"  
  
"Only by day," MacMurtney grins. Bullock whips out his .45, but it's already too late. MacMurtney is on him, grabbing the barrel of the gun and pointing it straight down as he delivers a brutal punch to the rotund detective's stomach. He falls to his knees. Bullock has taken many punches in his life, and this one bested them all. He grunts in pain as MacMurtney makes his way out. Bullock, to his credit, manages to shake off the punch faster than most men and is outside the hospital scant moments later. MacMurtney is nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Batman," Bullock gurgles before going back inside.  
  
...  
  
It's the late afternoon and the sun has begun its slow descent, bringing with it long, menacing shadows that traverse the landscape. Bruce Wayne notes the phenomenon as he carries a narrow wooden crate across the manor grounds. Sunset has always been his daily dénouement, and already his inner ghosts were crying for release. However, this night will be different. One way or another, it will end, he can feel it.  
  
He gently drops the crate to the ground and turns towards a nearby bush. Kicking it in just the right spot it clicks. He grabs the thorny vegetation and pulls it up, revealing a black hole leading deep underground. Bruce grabs hold of his precious cargo and steps in, pulling the bush back down behind him, resealing the trap door. He flips a light switch and continues downward, passing by tarp-covered mementos. All of these were taken out of the manor recently, after his police guard was appropriately distracted, and after other matters had been taken care of.  
  
He pauses at an empty corner of the underground passage and lays the final memento on the floor. He takes a moment to open the top of the crate and slowly removes a large, protective plastic case. Bruce looks within the clear barrier in his hands and stares at the painting inside, the original portrait of his parents, and shakes his head forcibly. "Shot through the heart," he closes his eyes and tries to listen to his own heartbeat, "So was I."  
  
...  
  
"He slugged me!" Even in his most sated state Harvey Bullock is near unapproachable. Right now he's one step away from certifiable, squeezing the barrel of his gun as he tries to calm down. Bullock learned long ago that metal is the only thing that won't bend to his will, and he grits his teeth as he repeats his words, "HE slugged ME!"  
  
Commissioner Gordon tries to ignore his detective's complaints, intently focusing on the hastily constructed file on Dr. Marcus, but even he has his limits. Gordon lowers the file and gives Bullock an annoyed glance, "You're sure it was him? It could have been the Joker in disguise."  
  
"It was Batman," Bullock replies in a low growl.  
  
"Maybe he was one of Joker's henchmen?"  
  
"It was THE Batman," Bullock answers, his voice slightly raised.  
"With the Mad Hatter's devices in his grasp, Joker's henchmen could have increased strength..."  
  
Bullock slams his fist onto the desk and screams, "IT-WAS-THE-FREAKING- BATMAN!"  
  
Gordon doesn't even jump. He just looks back into the file. "It's almost like this MacMurtney character was giving us a trail to follow. He keeps the same alias and disguise, and asks about the same doctor while visiting Arkham, the First National Bank, and Gotham General. He must have known we'd be going to the same places after Marcus was murdered. Anyone could figure out that much. I mean, why would the vigilante killer..."  
  
"Batman," Bullock interrupts.  
  
"...unknown vigilante killer go after a psychologist and former Gotham General resident? Heck, why switch from resident to psychologist in the first place? Does psychology pay that much better, especially when it's done at Arkham?"  
  
"I wouldn't know," Bullock answers in a surprisingly calm voice, "Look Commish, the sun's setting." As Bullock mentions the fact Gordon's office develops long shadows across the walls. Gordon doesn't keep the indoor light on during the day and the room becomes a macabre collection of dark pools with angled edges, inching from one side of the room to the other. A shiver crosses Bullock's spine as the shadows reach the centre of the room, creating the effect of a police commissioner sliced in twain, between his light and dark halves.  
"You know, I don't think I've been in here when the sun's setting," Bullock whispers, "It's kinda creepy."  
  
"Is it?" Gordon answers, distracted by the file, "I've never noticed." As he looks down, sections of the shadow-covered text begin to develop an eerie radiance thanks to an application of glow-in-the-dark ink, MacMurtney's handiwork. His highlighting outlines several large deposits that correspond to changes in Dr. Marcus' life, a familiar name on the Marcus patient list, and something else, written as a note on the side, which turns Gordon white as a ghost.  
  
"I'm leaving," the Commissioner mutters, his face stoic and unmoving as he gets up.  
  
Bullock rises as well. "You're going to go see the Bat, aren't you? I'm going with you!"  
  
Gordon knows how stubborn Bullock can be and doesn't argue, "After you." As the rotund detective turns he feels the full weight of an expertly wielded gun butt strike his skull from behind. He slumps to the floor in a heap, unconscious. Gordon then casually tosses his gun into his trench coat pocket and removes his badge. He takes a quick glance, frowns, and tosses it onto his desk. Adjusting the sling supporting his still sore right arm he storms out of his office, slamming his door shut behind him. As it crashes shut the window cracks across the center...  
  
...  
  
The officer has decided that he hates driving this road. Having just been relieved in his shift at Wayne Manor, by the Commissioner of all people, the officer finds it near impossible to relax. He continues to mutter obscene curses at Bruce Wayne for forcing him on such a useless errand earlier that day.  
  
"I thought I heard something, in the west wing. Could you check it out?" the officer mimics his charge in a child like voice. It took him over three hours to scour the entire wing, and then another hour to find his way back to Wayne!  
  
'Why does Mr. Bigshot get a police guard anyway?' he fumes, 'Most folks who need it can't get one, but the Commish says Mr. Bigshot got a threat and BAM, I'm standing like a dope in his front yard.' Oh, don't get him wrong. He enjoys the scenery provided by the rural route, and its calming effect. In fact the drive is quite pleasant at certain stages, like the coming turn where you can see one of the largest trees Gotham has ever produced. Truly it's a wonder. It's Bruce Wayne who fills his stomach with bile. And it's the next stage of his trek that makes him lock the doors and become a little more leaden with the gas pedal. To his right there's an inscription carved in near ancient stone, the source of his anxiety, 'Arkham's Asylum for the Criminally Insane.'  
  
Without warning, as if falling from heaven above, a beautiful red headed woman lands before the startled officer's vehicle. Her eyes seem as blazing embers as the headlights strike them, spooking the officer. He mutters another curse and tries to swerve his squad car out of the way. Instead of careening off the road a giant wall of roots and vines sprout from the earth, which his car crashes into with a ferocious impact. The wall then vanishes as mysteriously as it came. The red headed woman begins to walk towards him and it is at this moment, dazed and bloodied from the impact, that the seat-belted officer notices how green her complexion is.  
  
'She's not human, is she?'  
  
He desperately stumbles for his sidearm only to feel her gentle fingers remove it from his hand at the very last moment. The officer tries to hide his fear as he feels the noxious aura around the woman permeate the very air he breathes, dulling his senses. She smiles playfully and places one hand about his throat and the other points the gun at the side of his temple. Strangely, he's unafraid of the gun.  
  
"You like me, don't you?" she asks in a very alluring tone. The officer nods as best he can; unable to understand why this is the only answer he wants to give. His arms ache and blood is pouring out of his nose.  
  
"Good," she continues, "then we can be friends, can't we?" Again he nods. He wants to please her, and he doesn't know why.  
  
"So tell me," she pauses and the officer could swear that for an instant her skin's hue changed to something more natural, more human. She shakes her head and continues, "So tell me, where is Commissioner Gordon?"  
  
The officer's eyes jump from the gun to the woman's face. He needs help, but none is coming. And she's so beautiful. "Wayne," is all he can whisper before darkness claims him. She then removes the officer's limp form from the cruiser and binds his more severe wounds with hastily grown leaves and vines. She then returns to the car and turns the ignition. It still works. Reversing the car's direction she speeds down the road, her face contorted in rage, "Soon."  
  
...  
  
Darkness seems to arrive on the wings of some bizarre demon that night. The stars appear to lose their lustre next to the more dull and sinister moon, its usual bright glow replaced by a strange yellow light, giving all of Gotham's denizens reason to fear for the future. 'It's a night when men do strange things,' thinks Commissioner James W. Gordon as he treads upon the steps of Wayne Manor, 'and none stranger than what I'm about to do.'  
  
Gordon approaches the officer currently charged with Bruce Wayne's protection. He smiles and orders the man to take the rest of the night off. The officer looks confused but obeys his superior. Gordon waits for him to drive off and onto the main street before turning towards the massive oaken doors guarding the manor entrance and knocks firmly. He then tries to slip his hand into the pocket containing his revolver. Before he can do so the door flies open and there, standing before him in full black and gray, is the dread Batman.  
  
"This can't be good," is all Gordon can muster before two powerful arms drag him in. With a kick the doors close, immersing both men in absolute darkness.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED... 


	12. Events Predicted I

Chapter 12: Events Predicted I  
  
In the pitch-blackness of Wayne Manor, Commissioner James W. Gordon could feel powerful hands shove him into a chair. Landing hard he hears the crack of splintering wood, and realizes his trusted pipe has snapped. He grunts in pain as his mangled right arm fires thunderbolts to his brain. His eyes finally begin to adjust to the moonlight when he hears a switch turn, sparking a dull illumination, a circle of light, around him. It's the den, that much he is certain of, but he cannot pierce the blackness beyond the light. Gordon's first instinct is to try to reach his revolver.  
  
"Don't bother..." the gruff, whispery voice of the Batman tells him. The Batman steps out of the dark and into the light, in full black and gray. Gordon turns to face him. "...you know what I'm capable of."  
  
"Damn it, what are you capable of?" Gordon screams back. "You lied to me! You said you couldn't wear that suit again! What else did you lie about, Bruce? What else are you capable of?"  
  
Batman raises an eyebrow at Gordon's accusation, unable to completely comprehend it. "You still don't understand?" Batman begins, "Shooting the Harlequin was a brilliant move. Anyone who keeps in touch with Arkham, like you, me, or any of the inmates for that matter, would know. Hurt Ivy and you'd have to answer to Harley. Hurt Harley and you'd have hell to pay from Ivy. What better way to draw her out and point her in the right direction?"  
  
"Bruce, I asked you before if you were the vigilante killer. The media thinks Batman is the killer, the inmates think Batman is the killer, the whole damned city thinks Batman is the killer. I asked you, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and what do you do? Dear Lord, what have you done?"  
  
"She's after you, Jim," Batman whispers, ignoring his captive's questions. "It's only logical, she wants you so she can get to me. That's why I led you and Bullock on...so you'd be here."  
  
"You? You're MacMurtney?" Gordon's demeanor changes to one of dread and concern, "And that note...you really...?"  
  
The Batman pauses and frowns. He then swoops down at the Commissioner and shoves his chair up against the wall. Gordon looks up and sees Batman's eyes firmly fixed upon the nearby French windows. The glass suddenly shatters into thousands of jaggedly sharp fragments, with each piece glistening like a star while propelling through the air and into the light filled circle. Batman raises his cape with lightning like speed to protect both Gordon and himself. Once the barrage subsides he lowers the cape, and what seem like giant green fingers stare back at him. Each digit then reaches out and grabs the dark knight before he can react, pushing him out of the light and into the darkness. He smashes into the far wall and grunts in pain. His arms crushed to his sides, the Batman desperately tries to wriggle himself free, but his efforts only make the leafy fingers grip even tighter. Finally he stops and wryly smiles as a beautiful red headed woman, wearing a green complexion and very leafy one-piece swimsuit, enters the room with a plant aided leap from the grounds below. She is like a temptress beckoned forth from the pits of hell. "Company's here," he says sarcastically.  
  
Though dumbfounded at the latest turn of events, the Commissioner immediately recognizes her and calls out, "Poison Ivy!" She turns her head towards him while continuing her very slow and alluring walk towards the Batman. The look on her face is one of pure hatred.  
  
"Don't do this! Dr. Arkham said you were making excellent progress. He thought you could leave the asylum. He thought you were cured! Don't..." She doesn't hear a word. Instead she gestures with a raised eyebrow and Gordon finds himself instantaneously wrapped in vines and bound to his seat, his mouth gagging on bitter leaves.  
  
"Well, well," Poison Ivy begins as she turns her full attention to the ensnarled Batman once more, her voice is as seductively sweet as a summer's breeze, "I came looking for the Commissioner. You always had a thing for saving cops, and the top cop in particular. I had no idea you would be here too, but fortune can sometimes be kind, instead of cruel."  
  
Batman merely stares at her, frowning.  
  
"I'm going to make you pay for what you did to Harley. I have such exquisite tortures in mind for you, Batman. It will be a pleasure to see if you can take it as well as dish it out..." and the leafy fingers begin to squeeze a little harder "...you'll beg, and plead, and pray, and then you'll die, less of a man than when you were born." and the leafy fingers squeeze even harder. "First, a little something," she smirks as her fingernail strokes his exposed cheek, biting into the flesh. He could feel the scratch burn as the toxins flow into his body, and the cool night air seemed to ignite into a blazing inferno about him. "Nothing deadly," she continues, "just bad enough to give you a taste of hell...before I send you there."  
  
Then there's a clap of thunder and Ivy gives a faint yelp before falling to the ground. Batman, in his delirious state of mind, barely notices her blood splash onto his face. However, he does notice the familiarly garbed figure stepping into the circle of light. There's no mistaking him, with his black and gray suit, cowl covered face and pointed ears. Within his black-gloved hands is a smoking Tommy gun, the source of the thunderclap. Bruce gurgles in pain, barely able to focus his vision thanks to Ivy's gift. He scarcely manages to get the word out, "Batman."  
  
The latest entrant bows graciously to his still plant bound host. He then turns towards Commissioner Gordon, who's desperately trying to free himself from his bonds. "Don't bother, Gordon. I've seen her plants thrive even after she's sound asleep. I suspect your bonds work on a similar principle. Besides, it'll be over before you know it. And you, dear lady," he opens his hands towards Ivy's prone form, "You've played you're part masterfully! You set them up, and I knock them down. Never mind that I set you up in the first place, we'll just keep that to ourselves." He frowns, "Poor girl, you miss your friend, don't you? How about if I send you to her, first class, no charge?" He cocks the gun and levels it down.  
  
"Stop...stop the thunder!" a raspy voice calls out.  
  
The Batman turns towards his plant bound doppelganger and smiles, "What was that, Brucie?"  
  
"Joker." he whispers.  
  
"Figured it out, eh?" the gun wielding Batman smiles, his ruby lips and white face now unmistakably clear, "Not that it ever was that hard. I told you I'd pay you a visit. By the way, nice place you've got here. Love the floral touch. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to shoot these two people before your very eyes, and then we'll talk, I promise."  
  
Bruce grunts as his right hand clasps down into a hard fist, depressing a tiny button in his glove's palm. The solitary lamp lighting the room then begins to crackle and pop as its wiring is overloaded with current. The light then goes out, giving the disguised Joker reason to pause and stare up. Soon sparks rain down onto the ground, igniting the fuel-covered floor into a raging bonfire. The Joker laughs as the bonfire becomes an inferno. He turns towards his nemesis, "Took a page out of my book, eh? And without express written permission! You naughty boy!" He raises the machine gun to eye level and aims at the Batman's skull.  
  
Bruce struggles with his bonds at a fevered pitch. Already the flames have touched the plants about him, and only now are they weakening. With a final strain of muscle he wrenches himself free, the hail of gunfire erupting above his head scant seconds later. In his delirium there's only one response he can muster, "Stop...the...thunder!"  
  
He deftly dodges another barrage from the mad clown, rolling to one side. Bounding to his feet with a maddened strength he then leaps at his laughing look-alike. Grabbing the gun's barrel he then hurls it about, with the Joker in tow. The Joker is unable to hold on and releases his grip on the gun, launching him up against a now fire soaked wall. Flames lick at his costume and skin, taking their pound of flesh before he can extricate himself. He doesn't cry out, nor does he whimper. The Joker actually manages a grin as he steps away, smoldering.  
  
Bruce Wayne doesn't notice, or if he did, he doesn't care. All he can think about is the manmade thunder that had taken his parents from him. All he can think about is his need to end this. Lifting the gun over his head like a club he then brings it down on top of the Joker's head, smashing the gun to bits. The Joker continues to grin as he shrugs off the assault and shoves Bruce back. Bruce grimaces; his fever-racked mind won't let him plan an attack. He can feel the pain of Ivy's gift start to decline, but it won't be in time. He won't be able to win this one and he smiles at the possibility. He glances at the ceiling and his smile becomes a sneer. Soon it will be over, for both of them. 'Good.'  
  
He then feels a gentle hand across his shoulder and turns with a start. It's the Commissioner. "Bruce, get her out of here, please," he implores as he gestures over to Ivy, who continues to lie motionless in the midst of the chaos. "She's still alive. I can't do it with my mangled arm. You're the only one who can save her, Bruce. Don't let her die. Promise me you won't let her die. She just misses her friend."  
  
The Batman grits his teeth in frustration. His plan neglected Gordon's handicap. He was so close!  
  
"Promise me!" Gordon screams.  
  
"I promise," Bruce growls under his breath. Something in Gordon's words had swayed the dark knight and he gently picks up Ivy's limp form and runs towards the shattered window, and freedom. Gordon turns towards the Joker and clenches his left fist. The Joker laughs, "Aren't you going to follow him out? Then I follow you out. Isn't that how we play this game?"  
  
"I'm not leaving," Gordon growls, "and neither are you. You've got one of the Hatter's devices under that cowl, don't you? The same type the Walrus had at the school? That's how you could take the slam into the fire and the club shot to the head?"  
  
"Guilty as charged, Commissioner," Joker smirks, staring at his own reflection in Gordon's thick glasses, "How else do you think I could frame Bats so soon after being shot in the stomach? I needed an edge. Shall we continue this lovely chat outdoors?"  
  
"I don't think so," Gordon casually answers back, the sweat pouring down his face, "I know what Batman had in mind tonight."  
  
"So did I!" Joker interrupts, unwilling to be outdone.  
  
"But I won't let him go through with it! Super strength or not, you can still die," Gordon produces his gun from his pocket and levels it at the Joker. "You killed some of the finest men and women I've ever known...some of the closest people in my life! Dear lord, I can still see her face at night!"  
  
"Such pleasant memories," the Joker smiles back, "You know, it took 56 bullets to stop the Walrus. You don't have nearly enough."  
  
"You're right," Gordon sighs, "But they can slow you down." He pulls the trigger and a single shot rips through Joker's right shoulder, "Arm for an arm."  
  
"I didn't feel a thing," the Joker giggles, "Do it again!"  
  
Gordon aims the gun at Joker's skull and pulls the trigger. The bullet smashes into the Kevlar cowl the Joker continues to wear. The mad clown doesn't feel a thing and his giggle becomes a guffaw, "This isn't a discount store knock-off, Gordon! I spent a great deal to make it as authentic as possible, right down to the lovely little booties! Go ahead, do it again!"  
  
Gordon could feel the heat begin to build, and could hear wooden supports start to crack, 'So this was the plan?' He turns to Joker and fires another shot, this time at his right shin. The bullet ricochets off the boot's armor and the Joker laughs out loud, "Again! Again!"  
  
"The boots," Gordon gasps, the smoke beginning to choke his throat and sting his eyes, "How did you copy them so exactly?"  
  
"Oh, that was the most brilliant part!" Joker thumps a fist on his chest, "Batsy had me stuck in the Batmobile's trunk after the bridge dropped. Did you know he kept a spare suit in there? I just popped open the package and made some mental notes once I came to. The boots were the master stroke!" The Joker reaches for the utility belt and Gordon fires another shot, right into his stomach. The Joker grins as his old wound is reopened, "That tickles." He removes a cigarette and lighter from his belt. Amidst the raging inferno and billowing smoke he lights the cigarette and takes a long, deep breath, "I used this lighter," Joker flicks the tiny cartridge on and off, "to warm up the leather on his boot's sole, till it burned to the touch." Joker demonstrates by dipping his hand into the tiny lighter's flame. Immediately his hand begins to burn, "Cool, huh? You don't get these at just any smoke shop, I tell you." He takes another long drag, "Once hot enough, I just stuck the boot on my chest and it left a very painful and very indelible impression. Voila, instant copy! Care to try again?"  
  
Gordon tries to stem his cough and falls to his knees in a desperate bid to get away from the smoke. "You can burn," he growls, "You won't feel a thing while you fry, but you will fry!" The Commissioner then raises his gun above his head as he hears the ceiling begin to crack above them. He flashes a large, malicious grin at the Joker, like the mad clown is famous for, "Finish what I started. I'll see you in hell!"  
  
"Suit yourself," the Joker smiles back as Gordon fires his fifth shot into the weakened ceiling, sending a crushing rain of flaming plaster and wood upon them.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED... 


	13. Events Predicted II

Chapter 13: Events Predicted II  
  
His ancestral home is burning to the ground, and he's responsible. The flames flickering across the roof and into the night sky; the smoke pouring out of windows and doorways; the crashing sounds of tumbling beams and walls. All of it, ignited by his own hand. He should be on his knees, marking the occasion with a solemn oath, or to ask for forgiveness. He should be begging for his own salvation after what he's wrought, only his thoughts are elsewhere, to the two men he had left behind.  
  
"Jim!" he screams into the blaze. There's no answer. He had to end the madness, he had to try, and he nearly succeeded. A single miscalculation at the most crucial moment forced him outside, and now...now the flames beckon him to come back inside. He cannot. He promised his only remaining ally and friend that he would save the fallen female beauty who is lying still on the grass beside him, her wounds only recently tended to with his limited first aid expertise. Ivy sought to destroy the Batman to avenge her only true friend, the Harlequin. Instead she found more than she bargained for when the Joker revealed himself as Harley's true attacker. She nearly paid the ultimate price for her mistake; much like Batman wants to do for his own transgressions.  
  
"Jim!" he yells even louder. There's still no answer. The Batman shouldn't have tipped Gordon to his ultimate plan so quickly, but Ivy's involvement made it necessary. She would have killed Gordon just to get to the Batman. Bruce doesn't blame her though, how can he? How can he condemn anyone who seeks revenge?  
  
Then he hears it. A faint call from the grounds on the other side of the burning mansion, like a distant whimper at first, it grows into a complete plea for help. He doesn't hesitate for an instant before running to its aid.  
  
Ivy hears the call as well, and even in her weakened state she isn't blinded by it. She hears it for what it is and manages a faint whisper, "Don't...trap..." too late.  
  
Running across the green landscape, keeping his distance from outstretched flames, he soon reaches the source of the cries. Standing before him is a scorched and smoldering Joker, wearing tattered black and gray that once was a copy of Batman's costume. On the ground, lying face first and unmoving, and also heavily burnt is Commissioner James W. Gordon. The Joker's boot heel is deeply pressed upon the back of Gordon's neck as he points Gordon's own gun at the base of his skull. With Batman's arrival Joker pulls back on the gun's hammer and gives his oldest and dearest enemy a most frightful grin.  
  
"Help!" Joker cries, "Sorry, I just couldn't resist. Jimbo here, he really could use some help, though if not for me he'd be much more well done. As it stands he's only rare...medium rare at the most. He's still breathing too, if you can believe it. He always did make a better hostage than corpse."  
  
The Batman slowly slides one arm behind his utility belt, reaching for his own gun. While doing so he tries to stall the Joker, "What do you want?"  
  
"Feel free to take out your gun, Batman," Joker sneers, his chalk white face now painted black with soot and smoke, "You just may shoot me before I pull the trigger on Gordo. Of course, my gun would probably go off anyway, and at this range..."  
  
Batman unhooks his gun from his belt and aims it at the Joker. He doesn't pull the trigger and repeats his query, "WHAT do you want?"  
  
"The truth, Bruce, that's all. That night in my warehouse, I thought my little ploy had brought you back to your old self. You were a grim and gritty, down and dirty, unstoppable juggernaut! It was just like old times, until I caught the look in your eye. A most familiar glare that I'm certain I've seen before. In fact I see it every time I glance at a mirror. If I hadn't had Gordon in my sway that night, if it was just you and me in there...well, we wouldn't be having this pleasant conversation, would we?"  
  
"Get on with it."  
  
The Joker giggles, "Obviously I survived. Seeing how you wanted to up the ante so badly, to turn our fun and games into an all out war, I decided a little propaganda campaign was in order. With the aid of the Hatter's magic chip" the Joker taps on his head, "and Ivy's misguided rage, I had you in a two pronged attack. You ain't the only strategist in these here parts, hombre!" His expression then becomes stern, a level of sane attention rarely seen in the mad clown, "But that murderous gleam in your eye...what, oh what, could cause such a drastic change in my wonderfully stone-faced straight-man? It couldn't have been the bridge, I've killed kid sidekicks before and you never went this far. You're going to tell me what did it, Batman, or..." he wiggles the gun behind the Commissioner's head.  
  
Batman swallows long and hard. He could feel what was about to happen and needed time. Joker's a master trickster and could smell a lie, so the truth was his only recourse, "Do you know how Dick Grayson, Nightwing, died?"  
  
"I haven't the foggiest, but we've got an expert here, let's ask him." Joker gives a warm smile to the dark knight before prodding Gordon with a light tap to the side of the head, "Yo, Smokey! You hear that? Answer the man!"  
  
Despite his predicament Gordon wants to hear Batman say it. He needs Batman to say it. Twisting his head sideways the Commissioner coughs and then manages an answer with smoke filled lungs, "He inhaled a large amount of gas, fell out a window and landed on his back, hitting his head on the gas cylinder. After that it was touch and go." Batman grits his teeth, "No, it wasn't." and his tale begins...  
  
...  
  
A full moon can mean many things, none of which are good. An omen of ill will, of madness and death, it hung low that fateful night, its glow dimly lighting the hospital room. To the solitary patient within the room rest was impossible, and his eyes darted about as if in anticipation. Everything appeared different and otherworldly when they were given a hue of black and darkened blue, the chairs, the plants, and the windowsill. Among these accoutrements he managed to spot two narrow slits of white that betrayed a sinister presence. The eyes focused intently on their target as the dark demon stepped closer, its pointed horns almost scraping the ceiling. The demon flashed a friendly, although very worried smile. In its powerful hand the patient's file rested gently.  
  
"Dick," the demon whispered in a familiar voice. It was the Batman. His voice rarely ever wavered, but that night it shook uncontrollably as his left hand touched his bedridden ward's shoulder, "I'm sorry I didn't come earlier. I was looking for Tim...and Helena...and...I'm sorry."  
  
Dick Grayson didn't answer, nor did his shoulder spasm at the gesture. His still mask covered eyes continued to stare back at the Batman.  
  
"Jim was there, he made sure no one took your mask, that your identity stayed a secret. There's a guard outside too, although it's not necessary. We stopped the Joker, you saved those children..." the Batman paused then, and stared down at the file he had read through earlier. Batman swallows, unsure how to continue, "Cassandra visited earlier. I saw her leave; she's become quite a woman. When you're well enough..." Again he paused. Each time he opened his mouth he remembered Dick Grayson as he was, not as he is, and not as his future would be. 'Damn it Joker, you never make it easy!' The words echo in his head as he turns away.  
  
Trying to compose himself he searches for tears and finds none. They were used long ago, leaving only a raging fire inside. His protégé, his son lies next to him, unmoving and unable to feel his touch, and all he can gather is rage. He turns towards Dick once more, "I'm sorry," is all he could muster. He then stood beside his son in silence as Dick's eyes continued their stare.  
  
Batman, finally having gained enough courage, peers confusingly into the eyes of his son, "Dick, do you want something?"  
  
Like tiny orbs of light the eyes moved their attention to Batman's right, and guided the dark knight to do the same. He was aghast at the sight of the tiny green line traveling across a screen, bounding up and down every so often. The machine's tubes and wires were connected to Dick, feeding him life.  
  
"No," Batman whispered, shaking his head in disbelief, "You can't ask me to. Please."  
  
But the eyes were fixed upon him and stared with an unyielding conviction.  
  
"You'll get better. You'll fight and you'll beat this...you always do...please, hasn't there been enough death, enough pain?" There was no change. Dick knew the truth. Even in that state he was too good a detective not to know. The gas...he ingested too much of the neurotoxin.  
  
"What about Cassandra? She..." and he silenced himself mid-sentence. He knew the answer. Cassandra...wasn't Barbara.  
  
"I...can't. You know I can't," only the eyes, the eyes that looked up to Batman as a father, wouldn't halt their stare. They glistened and throbbed as they stared. They begged and pleaded with tiny beads of moisture that sparkled dully as they rolled down Dick's cheek. They wept for the pain he felt and the pain he wished he could feel, and for the earthly delights which had lost all meaning for him. There would be no tortuous tomorrow, not for them. Those tiny orbs seemed to will the Batman into un-chartered waters that night. They moved his hands to the machine, and they softly...turned...it...off.  
  
Within moments there were knocks on the door as doctors and nurses tried to gain entry to no avail. Batman had thrown his massive frame against the door and barred its opening. As they pounded he looked back at his son as he lay in peaceful tranquility. He looked back and remembered a boy of six who darted through the air with a mischievous grin, who playfully tugged at the dark knight's cape as he tried to keep pace. A boy of six, who at the end of the night slumbered so well, like an angel.  
  
"I'm sorry," and he'd gone, returned to the night.  
  
...  
  
He cannot recall much after that moment. He can vaguely remember witnessing the doctor and nurse bursting into the room scant seconds after his departure, and their futile attempts to resuscitate Dick's unmoving form. He remembers the shift doctor, Thaddeus Marcus, noticing the failure of the life support and Dick's misplaced file after the nurse had gone. He can barely recall the stalking of Marcus that evening, or his proposition to the doctor. He would bribe Marcus for his silence, to protect his damnable secret, and he would place the doctor in Gotham's most famous institution, a guarantee to scientific fame, Arkham. The greed filled doctor agreed on the spot.  
  
He can vaguely recall mentioning the news of Dick's passing to Alfred, and the stout butler's heart attack soon after. He remembers Alfred's funeral however, and Tim's, and Helena's, despite the absence of their bodies. He can remember Cassandra's look of anguish and anger directed at him during each ceremony, and he can still feel that slap across his cheek before she vanished from his life, and Gotham. That event signaled to him the true weight of what he'd done, and he can remember formulating the plan as he watched Dick's body being laid into a grave under the secrecy of night. He remembers it all too well, 'the name MacMurtney...My turn came...to die.'  
  
...  
  
"That's it?" the Joker sneers at the shaken Batman. "That's what made you go around the bend? Unplugging someone who's already 90% corpse? Pathetic. The least you could've done was blow up a bus load of orphans or something!" The Joker shakes his head in disgust, "I had such high hopes."  
  
The Batman continues to aim his gun at Joker, "It was enough...enough death." Batman looks down at the gun in his hand, "I never was capable of killing before, but after...I couldn't let myself...I needed to end it."  
"Then you should've just put a gun to your head and pulled the trigger!" Joker screams back.  
  
"What? Like this?" Batman quickly puts the gun to the side of his head and begins to pull the trigger. The Joker screams, "NO!" and rapidly aims at Batman and fires. The Batman's gun flies out of his hand and onto the grass behind him. He stares at Joker's smoking gun and smirks, "Nice shot." The Batman then begins walking towards the mad clown. The Joker's gun wielding hand begins to shake nervously.  
  
As he walks Batman begins talking, "The joke, right? You can't kill me until you tell me the joke. It's why, after all these years, you still give me a way out of those death traps. It's why I wasn't on the bridge; you chose that radio frequency for me to track! It's why I wasn't roasted alive in the warehouse; you left me a full clip in the Tommy gun! You like jokes? How's this? I thought I could kill, and before I ended my own miserable life I thought of only one other human being I hated enough to join me. So I had Marcus wind you up and set you loose. ME! I gave YOU a way out, you murdering psychopath! We were going to settle up, you and I. I would've been only too happy to sit in the fire at the warehouse with your corpse, or to sit in Wayne Manor now with you burning away. If not for Jim, I would be."  
  
"No," the Joker replies with a trembling voice, "I'm in control here, not you! You made me, Dr. Frankenstein. That ensured your place! All the others were just faces and names compared to you; methods and manners; props and players! All to give a proper thank-you for making me the man I am today, a merry chase that would goad you into the one, truly operatic ending for this mad clown! We were close before, now finish it!"  
  
"No," Batman whispers as he stops his advance mere inches from the Joker.  
  
"You've got to be kidding! You were so eager at the warehouse! I'm offering you a free shot! What's wrong with you, man?"  
  
The caped crusader stands unmoving, his fists clenched, ready to strike. He can see the truth for the first time. What he wanted the Joker had wished for as well, from the very beginning. Since their very first encounter the Joker knew their paths were always intertwined for mutual destruction. Since the absolute beginning the Joker dictated the terms, set the rules, and Batman is damned if he'll let him do it yet again!  
  
"Perhaps some incentive," Joker smirks, sensing some newly found hesitation in Batman. He jabs his gun into the back of Gordon's skull and pulls the trigger. The hammer strikes the cylinder harmlessly since the revolver's last cartridge was just spent saving Batman's life. The Joker frowns, "Wouldn't you know it?"  
  
Batman grins. Even outside he could count the shots from Gordon's gun. Batman then shoves at the distracted Joker and sends him back, away from Gordon and into some newly grown foliage, courtesy of Ivy. The green branches, leaves and vines come to life and grab a hold of their enraged quarry, refusing to let go. Joker screams, "You cheated! How could you? The vixen was bad enough, but this? How could you?"  
  
The Batman gives Joker a perplexed glance, "Vixen?"  
  
The Joker shoots a sly grin, "Bet you thought I didn't know. She of the cape and cowl clique, good old 'whatshername'. She had that snazzy costume with my favorite hue. The one with that unmistakable glow that only a fellow mother (or a homicidal maniac whose met his share of mothers) would recognize. Just how far along was she? Two, three months?"  
  
The Batman's face contorts into a look of unbridled agony and rage, yet the Joker continues, "Of course she had to go. After all, when you cheat there are consequences; those are the rules..."  
  
Batman has heard enough. "I played by your rules, Joker! I was always forced to! Rule number one," he screams as he removes the Joker's cowl and reaches within it, pulling out a tiny metallic device, "there are none!"  
  
The Joker mutters an inaudible prayer and a final barb as the Batman crushes his lifeline in his glove. The Joker had always envisioned his end with a laugh and a bang, an exit worthy of the fourth of July. Now, as he closes his eyes and feels death's embrace for the final time, he finds nothing funny, nothing dramatic, nothing at all, save for a lonely child's whimper with the stark realization that the game, for him, has come to an end.  
  
The Batman waits for a moment, his hands trembling with emotion. Satisfied that this is not another ruse he checks for a pulse, and finding none he cuts the Joker's body free and carries it to the blaze, tossing it inside.  
  
"You killed him?" James Gordon manages as the Batman helps him up onto wobbly knees.  
  
"I...I'm not sure," Batman answers his friend in a low whisper, "He took enough punishment to kill any normal man. That chip in his cowl probably turned him into a walking corpse. He may have died in the warehouse, in the manor, out here or any time in-between."  
  
Satisfied with the answer, or just too tired to care, Gordon coughs, "What happened to Dick wasn't your fault. It was his choice..."  
  
Batman grimaces at the suggestion, "His choice? Not my fault? Not for Tim, nor Helena, nor Alfred, nor Jason, nor Barbara, nor countless others. Are you serious? I dragged them into this...this insanity, and they paid for it with their lives, each and every-one." Batman turns and stares into the flames eating away Wayne Manor, "Joker was right, this is the end..."  
  
James Gordon knows better than to argue with Batman when his mind is made up, but he can't stand by and let him toss his life away. There's only one link left to play to try and bring him back from the edge. "What about Ivy?" Gordon asks, breaking the awkward silence, "You promised me, and you know there's nothing left for her in Arkham, not without Quinn, and she did save our lives..."  
  
'A weak reason for Bruce not to toss his life away,' thinks Gordon, 'But it's all I have. The rest is up to him.'  
  
Another long pause passes between the two men, until the Batman finally removes his cowl, revealing the face of Bruce Wayne, who then turns towards Gordon. "I can't stay in Gotham," Bruce answers with a deep sigh, giving Gordon a hard stare in the process, "I've got some hard questions to answer." Gordon simply nods in understanding, removes his glasses and looks about. He can't make out a thing. They then hear the faint sound of sirens wailing in the distance.  
  
"Bruce, one last question before you go? Why wait 2 years for Marcus to talk with the Joker? Why didn't you just sneak into Arkham and kill the clown, then yourself? It would've been quicker, and nowhere near as risky to others."   
  
Bruce smiles as he picks up the damaged piece, Alfred's gun. He checks the mechanism and finds it still in working order. "When you've spent your entire life evading death at every turn," Bruce lifts the gun to the side of his head, pulls the trigger, and the hammer smashes harmlessly upon an empty chamber, "suicide is near impossible, unless assisted...a truly operatic ending..."  
  
Bruce then tosses the gun into the blaze. Gordon grimly smiles as his friend becomes one with the darkness. He knows Ivy will also meld with the inky blackness soon enough, long before the authorities arrive. He sits onto the grass and stares at the raging fire through soot-covered lenses.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED... 


	14. Loose Ends

In the city, few citizens deem it necessary to stare up at the heavens as they travel to and fro, for what is the point? Electric lights, which sparkle throughout buildings and along the streets, create such a glow as to block the heaven's twinkling effervescence. All are more content to stare at the gray stones they tread upon, and are the poorer for it, for if Gotham's denizens merely glanced upward they would see a remarkable sight.  
  
A figure garbed in black from head to toe steadily makes his way up the side of Gotham General Hospital, climbing with bare hands up the edifice from window to window, each leg of the journey marred with scrapes and scratches. Agonizing minutes pass before the figure gains the outside of the twenty-first floor, room 2111. A muffled sigh is heard as a bloodied hand reaches inside a hidden pouch lining the figure's costume, removing a bizarrely shaped glasscutter. One end is placed onto the glass pane, and the other simultaneously emits a high-pitched radio frequency to jam any nearby security measures. The figure then reaches inside the freshly carved opening and unfastens the window, knowing full well that the blood and scrapes should mar any fingerprints, enough to prevent identification. There were other ways to gain entry, but none as painful and unforgiving as the 21-storey climb.   
  
With catlike grace and stealth our intruder enters the room and walks towards the bed. Great care must be taken at this stage so as not to disturb the police guard outside the door. The figure looks down at the bed, and finds it empty...  
  
Suddenly two hands grasp around the intruder's face, covering the eyes, as a familiar, bubbly female voice whispers, "Guess who?"  
  
The assault from behind is countered by a swift judo flip before the girl could utter a single gasp. As she's tossed over the intruder's head her hands grab a hold of the mask and pull it off. She lands with a dull thud on the bed and looks back at her attacker's exposed face. She recognizes it all too well, and in a befuddled manner manages to say his name, "Bruce Wayne?"  
  
Bruce looks back at her with equal incredulity. There she is in a dull green hospital gown, the curvaceous side-kick of the Joker, sans costume and make-up, and sporting blonde pig-tails, "Harley Quinn."  
  
The voice used by Bruce was one Harley recognized as well. It wasn't Mr. Wayne who spoke, but "Batman!"  
  
Bruce winced at her exclamation. Surely the guards would have heard her yell. Instantly, he grabbed a hold of her and tossed her out the open window, and he immediately followed suit. Harley screamed as she felt the wind whip across her face while staring down at the rapidly encroaching ground. By the 12th floor Bruce had reached her and wrapped her around one arm. With the other he removed his grapple gun from the costume's secreted pouch and fired. The grapple grabbed hold of a nearby rooftop and they began their trek across Gotham, swinging from building to building. Harley dared not let go, unless she wished to become a new form of sidewalk art.  
  
It took a few swings before Harley became comfortable enough with her new mode of travel that she could speak once more. There was only one thing on her mind, "You almost to killed me!"  
  
Bruce's voice no longer resonated with the dark knight's tone when he answered, "No, I didn't."  
  
"I'm not talking about the warehouse, ya dope," she snaps back, "I know that wasn't you! They said on the news that it was you, but I knew it wasn't. Stupid media always gets things wrong. They actually said I was dead, can you believe it? Anyway, I knew the character that shot me may have looked like you, but I heard him laugh, and he sure laughed an awful lot like Mr. J. No one laughs like Mr. J, except Mr. J, and obviously you're not Mr. J, although..."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Bruce asks as the grapple recoils and he fires a fresh line. Harley gulps each time this happens, forcing the nausea back down to her stomach.  
  
After it subsides she continues, "That stunt at the hospital. You almost killed me!" Harley frowns when Bruce doesn't reply, and she returns to staring at the beautifully lit streets and buildings down below. Spying what she wanted, she then develops a huge grin and elbows Bruce in the side, causing him to lose his grip on her. She plummets downward and grabs hold of a flagpole underneath. Spinning around it she uses her momentum to launch herself onto an adjacent rooftop, landing in a perfect gymnast's Y-formation, with a wince. Rooftop gravel does not go well with bare feet.  
  
She looks back for an instant and seeing no pursuer she then runs towards the door, "Sorry Brucie, I know how much you like sweeping girls off their feet, but my heart belongs to another! I'm sure you'll find someone else, someday!"  
  
A twist of the doorknob and she's greeted by Bruce Wayne's stern visage, "I wish you wouldn't do that."  
  
"Gaah!" she screams, before slamming the door in his face and turning to run the other way, "That was different. You get so used to seeing Bats' and his pointy ears that the minute something else shows up, you nearly jump outta your skin..."  
  
She leaps across one roof to another and heads for the door. 'Of course, you've gotta wonder, Harl old girl, what are you going to do once you get away? I can't go running around Gotham in this flimsy thing...' she pauses as she takes a quick survey of her garments, '...and I thought the gowns at Arkham were bad! This leaves nothing to the imagination. Is it just me, or do doctors in general have no shame? Mr. J might like it, though...'  
  
She pauses in front of the door and bites her lip. With a gingerly twist of the knob she slowly pulls back on the door, her heart racing. There's no one there...  
  
She's about to breathe a sigh of relief when she feels a hand on her left shoulder. Harley turns with a start, and composes herself enough to scream, "What the heck are you doing? I'm only trying to see Mr. J! Why can't you leave me alone?" She falls to her knees, "We've got issues to resolve..." and she punches at her pursuer in the one spot he's sure to yield, only to strike at thin air. She then feels two powerful hands squeeze her shoulders from behind, and a stern voice whisper in her ear, "Mr. J-is-dead."  
  
"You're lying!" Harley screams as she pulls away from his grasp with a manic strength, losing her balance in the process. She lands roughly on the gravel-covered roof and notices the blood stains on her shoulders. Looking back at Bruce she could see the blood dripping from his fingertips, "It looks like I'm not the only one with issues..."  
  
Bruce then clenched his hands into tight fists and Harley winced at what he was about to do. Bruce only frowned as he crouched down to her level, "I'm not going to hurt you. I need...Ivy needs your help. Joker shot her and she's lost a lot of blood..."  
  
Harley then took a long look into Bruce Wayne's eyes and she knew the truth. "You killed him, didn't you?" she asks with a contempt filled voice.  
  
"Maybe," Bruce answers, his voice more a whisper, "Maybe not. Whatever the case, he's now beyond anyone's help. However, someone else you claim to deeply care for needs your help and the question is, are you now going to abandon her the same way Joker abandoned you?"  
  
...  
  
The evening sky around Wayne Manor is spotted with intense heat, with red and orange flames striking high into the black air as if trying to ignite the heavens. Commissioner Gordon hasn't moved from his vantage point on the lawn outside the fire gutted home, his eyes transfixed on the orgy of destruction. After staring at it for the past few hours, he has realized just how tired he is of it all. Turning towards his left he sees Gotham's firefighters dutifully battling the blaze with water, none venturing inside at the Commissioner's beckoning. There wasn't anyone inside worth saving. Feeling a hand on his right shoulder Gordon turns with a start and looks up at the grinning, unshaven face of the rotund Det. Bullock.  
  
"Commish," Bullock begins in a surprisingly soft tone, "I thought you'd want these back." Bullock presents Gordon with the Commissioner's badge and police issue. Gordon gives a very tired, soot covered smile and takes the two articles.  
  
Bullock then sits beside the Commissioner, "No hard feelin's, Commish. Ya felt you had to do this on your own, and I respect that. So long as it's over I can even forget about the throbbin' headache ya gave me."  
  
Gordon gives a smirk, "It's over."  
  
Bullock turns away and stares into the fire for a moment before continuing, "Then what about Harley Quinn's breakout from Gotham General ten minutes ago?"  
  
The Commissioner frowns and sighs heavily. Bruce had left with Ivy. Dr. Arkham said Ivy was cured, that Ivy was now more rational than most. Ivy is sane, and Quinn...Quinn's just as crazy as ever. 'I thought I had it figured out, Bruce,' the Commissioner broods silently as he removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, 'but this makes no sense. What in the world are you thinking?'  
  
"Commish?" Bullock's gruff voice rouses Gordon from his thoughts.  
  
'I could tell him your secret, Bruce,' Gordon surmises, 'and we could stop this before it gets out of hand...like I could have done before...ah, who am I kidding?' The Commissioner then clears his throat before addressing Bullock, "Get an APB on Quinn. Other than that, we've got nothing." And so, he sits back and waits.  
  
...  
  
"I thought she'd be in Arkham."  
  
Bruce Wayne has brought Harley to a small alcove, nestled between two buildings in downtown Gotham. Bruce merely has to press a button on his belt and the alcove wall collapses, revealing a hidden entrance. Harley cautiously peers inside the pitch blackness, unable to make out a thing. Bruce presses on another button after they enter, turning on the lights and resealing the entrance.  
  
Harley's eyes take a moment to adjust to the brilliance, and she soon spies the object of her search in the centre of the room. With leaps and bounds she crosses the cold stone floor to the prone form of Ivy, her best friend, lying on a gurney. Around her are countless machines, each one connected to Ivy's body, monitoring and maintaining her vital signs.  
  
"She's not going back to Arkham," Bruce answers.  
  
Harley ignores the response and touches her friend's arm, "Hey Red...uh...how you doing?"  
  
Ivy smiles.  
  
"As I said, she's lost a lot of blood," Bruce interrupts. "I tried some transfusions, but there was a problem. Her body continuously rejects the fresh blood, even though it's an exact match..."  
  
"The spores," Harley interrupts.  
  
"Spores?"  
  
Harley solemnly kneels beside her friend, "She's got these teeny, tiny little things that travel through her blood and kill anything...different. Why do ya' think she's got such a high affinity for poison? These spores only recognize each other and her own cells. Dr. Arkham kept a supply of her own blood for just such an emergency, but Ivy didn't like that arrangement much. It's one of the reasons she pumped me full of her own concoction that first time we met. She saved my life...so one day I could save hers, and keep her out of the nuthouse. It was our little secret..."  
  
"We'll get you ready," Bruce replies as he reaches for the transfusion kit...  
  
Time passes as Bruce Wayne prepares the necessary equipment, and the three occupants of the room utter not a single word during this period. Harley manages a faint smile as she's prompted to lie next to Ivy on a second gurney. She winces as the needle is inserted in her arm and then watches as her own life's blood flows through the clear tube to her friend. Ivy stays uncomfortably silent throughout the ordeal, providing an aura of death within the room for its other inhabitants, and it's under this foreboding cloud they wait.  
  
At the end Bruce sighs and passes between the two women to remove the needles. Ivy's is removed with a quick tug, but for Harley he takes a moment to bend forward, seemingly taking a closer look at his handiwork. Harley seizes the opportunity and grabs a nearby scalpel, bringing it to Bruce Wayne's throat, stopping just short of cutting flesh. He doesn't even budge and wonders why it took her so long to do so.  
  
"Now listen," Harley mutters in a slightly slurred speech, the transfusion had taken its toll, "I'm pretty sure YOU killed Mr. J, the man I loved, and common courtesy dictates that I have to kill you because of it. Self-mutilation is a dead giveaway. Batman never kills, and now that he finally did he's making himself pay a penance by climbing a building, barehanded, the result of which are two very painful and bloodied mitts. Now, I said I'm pretty sure, not 100%, so I need you to just provide a minor confession, for purely esoteric purposes, of course, and then the fun'll begin, 'kay?"  
  
Bruce bears a very grim frown as he begins to speak, "Are you sure you want to do this? Joker treated you horribly."  
  
"So?"  
  
"If you want to avenge his death you'll have to kill Ivy too. She helped stop him."  
  
Harley twists her lip at this and thinks before replying, "I'll ask her that myself, and I'll deal with it. You're wasting time..."  
  
"...And you," Bruce interrupts, "have a very difficult choice to make. You've been given a rare opportunity here, Harley, something people in our line of work take for granted each time it comes up. We've all lead violent lives, and paid for it with the torture, mutilation and death of loved ones, which causes us to go and commit more violent acts as retribution, which has its own repercussions, which are followed by more retributions, and so on. An endless cycle of death and despair that you, Harley Quinn, have the opportunity to end here and now! If you kill me, then sometime, somewhere, somehow there will be consequences, there will be more death, your own or someone you care about. I know, I've lived my life seeing this happen again and again and again...hell, I've been a part of it! But you, you can stop it by simply dropping the knife..."  
  
Harley's eyes are beginning to well up ever so slightly. She knows Batman is one of the good guys, that he cares, that he just helped save Ivy's life. But still, she loved Mr. J, like no one ever could. She loved him and now he's gone. She asks one more time, the scalpel beginning to shake in her hand, "Did you kill him?"  
  
Bruce closes his eyes and gives a faint whisper, "Yes."  
  
TO BE CONTINUED... 


	15. Kiss-Off

Chapter 15: Kiss-Off  
  
Harley Quinn's left hand spasms with a mind of its own, biting deeply into human flesh with the scalpel it held. Two quick, impossibly fast strokes followed, spreading crimson chaos in their wake. In her life as the Joker's partner in crime Harley had been witness to many acts of insane inhumanity that would cause any decent soul to vomit in disgust, but this was the first that she executed completely on her own. Horrified by the blood on her hands she lets go of the now crimson blade, letting it fall to the sterile ground where it shatters on impact.  
  
"This stuff," she gurgles as she tries to wipe off the blood, only smearing it more so across her flesh and gown, "this stuff is a bitch to clean. Oh well," she grins, "red is my colour." Turning towards her prey she casually asks, "So, how do you feel?"  
  
Before her the target of her rage falls to his knees, both hands trying to stem the flow of blood. Calling upon his collective willpower he ignores the pain, managing to rise up and stumble to a mirror. His hands fumble for the handle, "What...what have you done?"  
  
Harley produces a sly smile, "You gave me a choice, Brucie. I could've killed you and evened the score for Mr. J, or I could've spared your life and stopped the oh so spooky cycle of violence. I really didn't want to kill you. After all, you're a good guy; you helped save Red and sprung me from the hospital. Spilling your guts just didn't seem like a proper thank-you."  
  
He manages to grab a hold of the mirror, but it slips through his bloodied fingers and falls on the table once more.  
  
"Then it hit me," Harley giggles as she jumps off the gurney and walks towards a very frustrated Bruce Wayne, "I could kill two birds with one stone." She steps behind Bruce, placing one hand on his shoulder and with the other she lifts the mirror. Placing her head beside his she lifts the mirror so that the image contained both of their faces. "Mr. J gets his revenge, and I get a good man...that I can't resist," and she kisses him gently on his bloodied cheek.  
  
Bruce Wayne could only stare into the mirror at the two gashes that formed a permanent garish grin on a face he hoped he'd never see again. At that moment it was the Joker glaring at him from beyond the looking glass, and he laughed.  
  
"Feeling better already?" Harley mutters with a gleeful smile upon hearing the laughter.  
  
Bruce could feel it all slipping away. What did he have after all his tortuous and maddening evening adventures? What did he really accomplish? The people he really cared for are all gone, alienated or dead. He wanted to help the city, to stop the criminals that killed his parents and their ilk, and now...now he's become one of them. Joker was right; he was insane to accept such a task, he was insane not to kill, he was...no...he IS insane. He DOES know what it is to take a life. And he has such a wonderful grin...  
  
Then an anguished moan reaches his ears from behind and he turns to see Ivy's body writhing in agony as she sleeps, each movement setting off thousands of jolts of pain from her still fresh wound to her brain. Each moan from her is like a dagger to Bruce Wayne's mind, and he's forced to remember why he set out on his crusade in the first place. He's forced to remember his oath to Gordon to keep her safe, and the man who had harmed her...  
  
"You've failed," Bruce spits out as he shoves Harley aside. She loses her balance and falls, skinning her hand on the cold ground. "You got your revenge," he continues, touching his burning face, "but I'm not the man you love."  
  
Tears begin to pour down Harley's cheek as she takes the full weight of Bruce's words, "What...what are you going to do?"  
  
"Do? I think that's pretty obvious. First I'm going to stop my face from bleeding, then maybe a long ocean voyage..." he answers in remarkably good humour, reaching for a nearby towel.  
  
"To me!" Harley screams, still crying. She's in no mood for jokes.  
  
"You're welcome to join me, if you'd like."  
  
For a moment Harley feels as if the entire world, not only she, has gone insane, and she gives Bruce Wayne a bizarre glance and a flat-toned "What?"  
  
"You're not hearing things, Harley," Bruce begins, dabbing his face from time to time with a towel, "I'm asking you, and Ivy, to join me. I made a promise to keep Ivy safe and sound, and I intend to honour it...whether she likes it or not, and you, Ms. Quinzel, are welcome to join me. You just had a chance to kill me and you didn't. It was a simple test, and you passed," he dabs his face again, "barely." He got much more from his simple test than he had bargained for, mentally and physically.  
  
Harley simply gives Bruce a very perplexed look, "I was...am...a trained psychologist, you know, and this is really, really weird. I'm sorry, but I don't buy it."  
  
Bruce's demeanour becomes much more sullen, "Maybe there's something more to it, but does it really matter? I'm offering you and Ivy the chance of your lives while I try to sort through my own. What do you say?"  
  
Harley points her index finger to her chin and crosses her legs as she thinks for a moment before answering, "What the hell, I seem to have a track record with head cases. Besides, how could I say no to such an...enchanting smile..."  
  
Bruce courteously bends before her and offers his hand. She takes hold and he gently raises her up, and together they step towards the slumbering Ivy...  
  
...  
  
Epilogue:  
  
A bitterly cold wind accompanies the blanket of night as Commissioner James W. Gordon sits back in his chair. He looks out his window at the clean, freshly fallen snow and then turns towards his desk. His brownstone is completely engulfed in darkness save for a single, small lamp that illuminates a blank sheet of paper and pen on his desk. Even though his home is well heated, he could still feel the cold penetrate into his sore right arm, and the pain it carries. He sighs. Writing with his left hand is awkward, yet he can't risk using a computer, not even at home. He sets pen to paper and begins...  
  
'Sometimes I need to do this, to reflect, to try and sort through the changes that have happened. If I don't...'  
  
'Bruce Wayne was the Batman. A winged creature of the night that preyed on the wicked and aided the just would seem more fable than fact until Bruce made it come to life. In his life he'd seen triumph and tragedy, joy and sorrow, and through it all he didn't ask for anything in return, other than for the wound in his heart to heal. I doubt it ever will, even now when he's abandoned the mantle in exchange for the jet set life. What he's now up to I have no idea, although he continues to find the time to help Gotham through altruistic means, and I suppose that should be enough. In many of Gotham's society magazines pictures of Bruce do crop up from time to time. Most are from a distance and from poor angles, and to this day I don't think anyone has gotten a clean shot of his face. It's almost as if he was hiding something. Most folks are speculating he got burned in the manor fire, but I know better. Funny thing is that in almost all of the shots of a familiar female pairing could be seen in the background. Although you can't see their faces, it's hard to mistake the striking red locks of one and the blonde pig-tails of the other.'  
  
'Strangely enough, Gotham's stayed relatively quiet in his absence, with Arkham Asylum an almost perfect model of peace and serenity. I think the inmates still believe Batman is coming to kill them.'  
  
'By the time the Wayne Manor fire was put out there was nothing left. I don't know what Bruce used to fuel the blaze, but it did the job. Joker was ash, and only the suit he wore survived. This suit, a replica of the one Batman wore right down to its fireproof nature, was the final piece of evidence we needed to clear the real Batman of the vigilante slayings. The media turned me into a hero for finally ridding Gotham of the Joker's insanity, and for saving a shaken Bruce Wayne's life in the process, or so they believe. Bullock, on the other hand, has his own theories. He's an excellent and utterly trustworthy cop, and one man who could figure out, well, everything. If that happens, Bruce, I can't make any guarantees...'  
  
'Bullock has already managed to find the Joker's lair near a rending plant. The Joker chose his spots well, since he had a badly decomposed and disfigured corpse with him, with an overwhelming smell. Fortunately Jeremiah Arkham keeps a supply of blood from each inmate, in case of emergencies, and we were able to perform a DNA check on the corpse to confirm our suspicions. It was Jervis Tetch, the Mad Hatter. The city buried him, and Bruce sprang for a tombstone with a depiction of the tea party scene from Alice in Wonderland. It really is quite beautiful, in a morbid sort of way. Rest in peace, I guess. I sometimes stop by his grave after visiting Barbara and Dick, and Tim, and even Helena. Bruce has fresh flowers delivered to them each day. Strangely, Helena's tomb bore a distinct mark that was absent on the others. It's vaguely familiar, something that dealt with motherhood? I'll have to look it up.'  
  
'The Batsignal still shines every evening. I just couldn't stand seeing Gotham so dark and sinister at night. Besides, it may create enough doubt in some of the less hardened criminals to steer them onto the straight and narrow path. What I didn't expect was a response to the signal time and again. There are rumours on the street of a creature stalking the underworld...large, black with leathery wings and fangs. I can recall someone who may fit the bill...someone I thought had left Gotham behind her...'  
  
Gordon sets down the pen and eases back. He looks at what he's just written and smirks. Removing a pipe from his pocket he lights it and takes several deep puffs. He then lifts up the paper he wrote on and sets his lit match to one corner. His right arm throbs as he holds onto the paper, but he manages to set the parchment ablaze. Tossing the spent match and paper into a metal waste basket he looks into the flames and sighs, "The more things change..."  
  
END  
  
  
  
  
If you're reading these words, then you've made it to the end of the tale, and I thank you for taking the time and effort to read it. Originally I intended this series to last 20 chapters, with Bruce taking the Joker's place for a time, but decided against it. Trying to write a chapter a week has taken its toll, and I really don't have the energy to continue, so better to end it now. Still, if someone out there actually wants this beast to continue (sequel?), let me know. Once more, thanks. 


End file.
